


On the Path to the Promised Land

by theyalwayssay



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Airships, Alternate Universe - Steampunk, Destiel - Freeform, M/M, Steampunk
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-10-14
Updated: 2014-02-18
Packaged: 2017-12-29 10:40:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 27,444
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1004423
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theyalwayssay/pseuds/theyalwayssay
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Name: <i>Castiel Novak, passenger</i><br/>Set to Board: <i>Airship Seraphim (Commanding Officer: Chief Michael), 11:00 am</i><br/>Length of Voyage: <i>Three Weeks</i><br/>Class: <i>Premiere</i><br/>Last Residence and Class: <i>Heaven, Angel class, Veteran</i><br/>Quarantine Status: <i>Clear</i><br/>Passed by Immigration Bureau: <i>Port of Eden</i><br/>Relations: <i>Unknown</i><br/>Additional Notes: <i>Don’t let him jump.</i></p><p> </p><p>Name: <i>Dean Winchester, First Assistant, Engineering</i><br/>Class: <i>Crewmember</i><br/>Set to Board: <i>Airship Seraphim (Commanding Officer: Chief Michael)</i><br/>Quarantine Status: <i>Clear</i><br/>Relations: <i>Sam Winchester (brother), Second Assistant, Engineering</i><br/>Additional notes: <i>Keep him away from the other boys.</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Sinnerman, Where You Gonna Run To?

**Author's Note:**

> If there was ever a fic on which I'll overstretch myself, it'll probably be this one. But I'm up for the challenge. Steampunk Destiel with huge cast of crewmembers, let's go. Any notes, questions or anything of that nature? Feel free to leave a comment, I love hearing from you guys!
> 
> Chapter Title Song: Sinnerman, Nina Simone

The dock was freezing, and reeked of dead birds. Castiel held a hand over his nose and mouth as a portly man walked by, carrying a slaughtered goose by the neck. The rest of the dock rang with sound, chimes and laughter the slapping of sails and rope and the creak of metal. A blonde woman carrying a basket of wrenches slammed into his shoulder, glaring at him as she walked past, her boots echoing against the wooden planks. Castiel blinked, squinting against the bright sunlight. Port of Eden had never been described as so clear before, not with the airships going in and out every day, belching their smoke. Castiel reached down and picked up his leather suitcase, rubbing the handle between his thumb and forefinger nervously, as though constantly reassuring himself that it was still there. Beyond, the main dock branched off into narrower piers, twitching against the wind and the never-ending stamp of the crowd on top of it before coming to rest next to the great airships, bronze and tall as mountains. Each one pointed bow-first towards the dock, throwing the sculpted mastheads into sharp relief against the sun. Serpents, ravens and ferocious maws of all kinds leered down at the young aristocrat, and he watched them warily as he walked closer to the shadows of the metal titans.

“Call for boarding! Call for boarding on _Seraphim_!” called a voice. Turning about, Castiel saw a masthead rise out of the sun’s glare, and winger woman staring off towards the horizon, her arms outstretched plaintively. Written in gold beyond her wingspan, _USS Airship Seraphim_ gleamed like a beacon. He stumbled towards the behemoth, dancing about so as not to tread on trailing skirts and bootlaces. He turned a right and hurried down the pier towards a man standing before the deck leading into the wooden belly of the ship.

“Name?”

“Castiel Novak, Esquire,” Castiel replied, reaching into his breastcoat pocket and pulling forth his ticket, stamped onto heavy parchment. The man took it from him and read it appraisingly, looking through a pair of silver spectacles. “Thank you, Mr. Novak,” he said at last, nodding and pulling out a large metal stamp, slamming it onto the ticket. Every movement sent his silver hair gleaming. He handed the ticket back with an air of formality. “We shall board in ten minutes time.”

Castiel nodded, picking up his suitcase and looking about the pier for a place he might be able to sit for a spell before departure.

“Castiel!”

Castiel shook his head, not daring to turn around. “Impossible,” he muttered as a hand clamped down on his shoulder. “Castiel, you brute, where have you been?” Balthazar asked, smiling widely. The silver crown on his left eyetooth gleamed like a cat’s eye.

“Away. You know how it is after a war, Balthazar,” Castiel said, bowing his head curtly. “I see you’ve done all right for yourself. Are those officer epaulets?”

“What, these old things?” Balthazar asked, glancing at his jacket’s shoulder. His thick accent drifted through the air like the heady scent of alcohol. Or perhaps it was just the residual from the ex-soldier’s breath. “Just a little something from the war, good boy. A little token of memory, if you will. Hardly much, but there’s only so much honor a mercenary receives. Plus, they’ll fetch a decent price once our bravery has made the history books. But what have you been doing with yourself, Castiel? I haven’t heard from you once since you disembarked.”

“What can I say?” Castiel said, with a noncommittal jerk of his head. “I lived my life, as normally as it could be lived.”

“Now, don’t go giving me any of that!” Balthazar said, clapping a hand to Castiel’s upper arm. “Was it some girl you took a fancy to? Are you flying back to see the little cherubim? That would be just like you, Castiel, you know, forgiving and forgetting the war and moving on while the rest of us only share the bed with nightmares.” Balthazar leaned back, laughing heartily. “I joke, of course. But seeing as we’ll be boarding together, I daresay you’ll have more than enough time to tell me all of your sordid tales.”

“I’m certain I will, Balthazar,” Castiel replied, nodding stiffly. His hand twisted on the suitcase handle with an almost rhythmic frenzy. “Absolutely.”

“The great _Seraphim_!” Balthazar continued, throwing a hand around Castiel’s shoulder and spinning him around to face the airship. “I’ve heard many stories of this beautiful lady, let me tell you. Said to hold the best engineering crew that ever sailed the skies, but many funny stories from them too. There’s a genius on board who builds the best technology any ship could boast, but was nearly hanged for buggery in his prime, and they say his brother is oftentimes sick with a fever of the head. Nevertheless, a grand crew, although the owner, that Shurley fellow, is said to be a bit off his head. ‘Unorthodox,’ they call it. Have you read his books? Absolutely barking, the man, but must be some kind of mad genius, or he never would be able to maintain control of the enterprise,” he laughed. “Could hardly get a seat on this pretty lady, you know. Everyone wants to go to Earth for the holidays. Lovely place, I’ve heard, beautiful in the fall, but so rustic. I wouldn’t even be going myself if it wasn’t for a business purpose, but I daresay you’ve got your own scheme cooking, Castiel. Last I heard, you’d never left your Heaven estate.”

“Castiel?” called a female voice behind them.

“Yes?” Castiel replied quickly, unwinding himself from Balthazar’s arm around his shoulders. “Who is-?” but his voice croaked and fell silent at the owner of the voice before him, dripping in petticoats and pearls, an ornately carved walking stick clutched in her hand.

“Castiel Novak,” Rachel said, placing her carpetbag down on the pier and unwinding a black scarf from around her neck. “What a pleasant surprise. You look to be doing well.”

“R-Rachel,” Castiel said, bowing. He could feel his hand shaking at his back. “How is your leg treating you?”

“Oh, as well as can be expected, although it’s not really mine now, is it, Castiel? Not since that little bomb stunt in the field. No matter, it’s been just splendid otherwise. But you, you look fit as a fiddle, healthy and glowing as a new penny. Did you go to the coast after the war? I hear the sea air is the healthiest that can be found.”

“No, Rachel, not the coast for me. A little orchard in the west was what did it. Cultivating the bees and the wine, it’s the most relaxing of practices,” he replied, attempting to smile. He could feel his exposed teeth drying out in the stiff, chill wind.

“Naturally,” Rachel replied, stooping to pick up her carpetbag. Her lace-clad knuckles turned white against the handle of her walking stick as she creaked back onto her feet, bag in hand. “Well, I see no reason to say any parting words. I happen to be boarding the _Seraphim_ as well.”

“Are you really?” Balthazar said, grinning. “The more the merrier, I should think. Plenty of time for us old war-tried comrades to swap stories. You will join us at one point, won’t you, Rachel, for a bit of bandying and wine?”

“Certainly,” she replied, limping forward. She reached out a hand for Balthazar the shake before turning to Castiel. When he took her hand, she crushed his fingers in her grip, leaning forward ever so slightly to say conspiratorially, “anything for old friends.”

“Boarding! Boarding now on _Seraphim_! Those with tickets, please board!”

“Oh, that would be me!” Rachel said, pulling a folded ticket from the bosom of her corset. “You won’t mind coming down to steerage to visit me, will you? Soldier’s pensions are in no way sufficient for premiere.”

“Absolutely, my dear,” Balthazar replied, bowing. “And if there’s anything we personally can do to make the voyage more comfortable, you need only ask.”

“I certainly plan to,” she said, giving them a tight-lipped smile as she limped down the pier. Castiel swallowed as he watched her go. 

“Do you suppose,” Balthazar muttered, “that she’s still peeved about that whole leg business since you misfired that bomb at her?”

“Yes,” Castiel replied. “I daresay that is the case.”

“May God have mercy on your soul,” Balthazar said, shaking his head. He strode off down the pier, his blue velvet coattails waving and snapping in the wind. Castiel gulped, then reached down to pick up his own suitcase and follow his comrades towards the airship.


	2. Sippin' From a Bottle of Vodka Double Wine

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The Engineering Department, First, Second, and Third Assistant. You'd think together they'd be able to fix a furnace.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There will be Destiel in the next chapter I swear to God, just let me get a bit of world-building out of the way first. Leave a comment if there's anything you'd like to see in the upcoming chapters! A special thanks to Amanthas for the lovely comment! And yes, I'm using opium as a substitute for demon blood. What can I say, I love that plotline too much not to give a nod to it.
> 
> Chapter Song Title: Candyman, Christina Aguilera

“Turn that drivel off,” Jo said, kicking the engineering door open.

“It’s the future of music, Harvelle, learn to like it,” Dean replied, looking down his propped-up boots at her. She glared at him as he took another swig from his flask, bobbing his head to the music blasting creakily from the old gramophone propped up in the corner of the large, cluttered room.

“You and that damn angel radio,” she muttered, setting down the basket of wrenches with a sharp clang! and swiping Dean’s feet off the bench. “Taking control of that shit music system is the worst decision we ever made.”

“Don’t curse like that, it’s not ladylike. And besides, angel radio is the greatest thing in the world. I can listen to music that hasn’t even been written yet. Angels and their time travel. You have to admit, that’s an achievement.”

“Maybe that’s why angels can’t fight worth a damn, they’re too busy listening to automaton music from the future,” Jo replied, pulling her hair back into a bun at the base of her neck. “And maybe that’s why certain mechanics can’t finish fixing a furnace. Now,” she reached forward, the black metal glove on her hand gleaming. The needle on the old gramophone skidded, the music falling silent. “Let’s get some work done, shall we?”

“Don’t handle my baby like that! She’s meant for a noble cause!” Dean said, reaching forward and pulling the glove from Jo’s hand.

“Your baby’s nothing but a glove with magnets stuck in the fingertips. And when you finally finish that furnace, you can tell me how to use it.”

“This device,” Dean replied, shaking it in her face, “is a delicate precision instrument used for only the most important of engineering tasks, and I don’t want you to go and muddy it up with mundane things. Keep your paws off it.”

“Then use your precious invention to fix it,” Jo replied, smiling tight-lipped and pulling a wrench from the basket, nearly hitting Dean across the face with it.

“I outrank you!” he shouted at her retreating back, and was rewarded with a slammed door. He huffed, getting to his feet and pulling a wrench from the basket, slipping the glove on over his right hand. It was true, the glove was exceedingly simple, but that didn’t mean it was useless. The condensed magnets in the fingertips made it possible for the user to levitate metal objects, and even excite the particles in light and electricity so that they were not only visible, but could be manipulated in mid-air. And the prototype was originally created from an automaton carriage battery and a leather work glove. So yes, Dean definitely was allowed to be proud of it. It was the invention that moved him up to First Assistant Engineer in the first place, and gave him the leverage necessary to bring his brother with him, not to mention his instatement onto _Seraphim_ ; he hated to think of what shape that tiny rustbucket of his and Sam’s old airship _Lawrence_ was in. Probably decommissioned, or caught on fire and fell right out of the sky.

There was a slam as the door into the engineering room banged open. Dean glanced around to see Sam walk in, pulling the goggles from his face to hang around his neck as he wiped a smear of grease from his face with a handkerchief. “Bobby got us the passenger profiles,” he said by way of greeting, throwing down a pile of envelopes onto the workbench. Dean nodded, walking over and flipping them over with his free hand. A list of names and room assignments were scrawled across the page in splotchy black ink, and nearly every single one of the lines of notes ended in a great big red ‘X’.

“Is it just the notary’s handwriting, or did all of these people pull their names straight from the teeth of Believers?” Dean asked, squinting down at the page.

“We’re flying a group of angel veterans to Earth. Apparently, most of them were in the same garrison and know each other from the war. I heard a few of them on the docks talking about sharing stories during the voyage. One of them had a leg blown off.”

“Really? How fascinating,” Dean replied, scanning the list of passengers. “You’ve got to admit, that notary Metatron has a scrawl like a drunk cat.”

“I know what you’re thinking, Dean-”

“Yes, I’m thinking that we have to transport a herd of lazy cowards. Well done, Sam, you little detective you.”

“Dean, I am sorry, but I refuse to let your prejudice jeopardize our job here. Your invention isn’t going to keep us out of the pit forever.”

“And what, Sam? You think that me disliking the passengers is going to get us sacked, so that we can go and spend the rest of our short lives living in the Purgatory slums? That ain’t going to happen. I’m keeping my nose to the skies, brother, and out of harm’s way. You might think of doing the same. And stop wandering around the docks, you should be here working.”

“Working on that furnace you never fixed?” Sam replied, raising his eyebrows. He walked over to the black mound of metal and stared through the grate intently. “Unless we get this one up and running before takeoff, half the passengers aren’t going to have heating. We’ll get complaints.”

“I’m sure their pretty, feathery asses can keep them warm,” Dean said mockingly, his smile fading when Sam glared at him. “I’m making a jibe, Sammy.”

“There’s lots of things that might lose us this job, Dean,” Sam muttered, pushing up his greasy shirtsleeves and reaching into the heart of the furnace, the handkerchief wrapped around his hand to quench the possibility of hot coals.

“I’m aware of that, Sammy. A few rumours aren’t going to push me out, though. And if they do, I won’t be taking you with me.”

“Are they rumours, Dean?” Sam asked angrily, leaning back on the heels of his boots and throwing his handkerchief on the ground. “Are they? ‘Cos you never told me for certain-”

“What I do in my private time is not business for my baby brother, and no matter for the state neither. They’d do well to keep their opinions to themselves. Just like _I’m_ keeping my opinion to myself about that bag of midnight oil you got in your pocket.”

Sam clapped a hand to his breast pocket, his eyes fixed on a single coal in the furnace, refusing to look at his brother. Dean chewed on his bottom lip, staring at him expectantly.

“What?” he said after a moment. “Did you buy it from that hooker Ruby? The one that’s always panhandling by the birdcatchers? The one that’s probably got a dream stick up her ass?” No answer. “Sammy, you may be worried about how I’m getting along, and maybe that stuff won’t get you hung, but it sure as hell is going to rot you from the inside out. It ain’t called demon drugs for nothing.”

“You’re just ruffling your feathers ‘cos I got it from Ruby,” Sam snapped. “You’ve never liked her.”

“True, I do prefer the fancy lady with more tact and class, but a regular street harlot selling you hop is a bad way to live, brother. Soon enough you’ll be coughing up your lungs, and don’t think she’ll be waiting there with a bucket for you.”

Sam opened his mouth as though to speak, but only harrumphed and set back to inspecting the furnace.

“Not to mention,” Dean said, standing up and stretching so far that his shoulders popped, “The rats are gonna knew right through the burlap, and you know how much of a bitch they are when they’re hopped up.”

There was a creak as the door opened. Dean glanced over to see a thin woman with a shock of bright red hair peek timidly through the door, a spray of white feathers waving merrily behind her ear.

“Engineering?” she asked, pulling the door open wider. Her white lace gloves came away with a smear of coal dust from the doorknob, her petticoats sweeping against the wooden floor. “I was told to come here to ask about a problem in my cabin. Is there anyone who would be willing to help-?”

Dean glanced down at Sam, who stared up at him from where he was crouched on the floor. “Say no more,” Dean said, putting a boot on Sammy’s shoulder and pushing him to the floor while smiling at the woman. “I’d be more than happy to assist you, Miss-?”

“Anna Milton,” The woman said, bowing slightly and smiling.

“Lead the way,” Dean replied, picking up a basket of supplies from the workbench and following her towards the door. As she turned, he glanced down, noticing that her corset wasn’t laced, the way ladies of propriety were, but with tiny metal clasps that could be undone with a simple yank of the hand. He raised his eyebrows, faltering for a moment.

“Sir? Are you coming?” Anna asked, turning to look at him from the door. Dean opened his mouth, then nodded.

“By your leave, Miss Milton.”

Sam watched as the two of them left the hall, then snorted and turned back to the furnace. “You can’t erase buggery just like that, Dean,” he muttered as he groped for a loose bit of metal sitting amongst the coals, his other hand reaching for the burlap bag in his pocket.


	3. Round and Round the Roundabout

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Finally some Destiel! And airships really are so stupidly enormous. All that wandering, and Castiel didn't even find the chambers where all the really interesting business was happening.
> 
> Chapter Song Title: Turning, Les Misérables

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yep, finally Destiel. I promise I'll live up to the pairing tag, chickadees, just be patient! Special thanks to Maeleene, DevilMadeMeDoIt, and Amanthas for the kind words. Feel free to leave a comment, I love hearing from all you guys!

The room was frigid.

“Am I really expected to sleep here?” Castiel asked, looking around the tiny wooden room. A small porthole looked out on the scudding clouds, and a large bed covered in burgundy coverings dominated the majority of the room, the pillows large and imposing in their perfect whiteness. A small wooden desk stood on the left side, and a tiny bronze lamp glowed merrily. As a whole, the cabin was charming, but undeniably freezing.

“Perhaps the furnace is broken,” Balthazar said, looking about the room uninterestedly, his bag hanging loosely in his hand. “Shame. The Engineering crew were said to be so bright.”

“Should I go tell someone?” Castiel asked, setting his leather suitcase down at the foot of the plush bed. “Perhaps they’re getting other complaints.”

“Certainly, if you can find them. Engineering is in the belly of the ship, you’ll have to go through quite a few doors to find it.”

“Are you planning on helping me, old friend?” Castiel wheedled. “For old time’s sake.”

“With the odds of you running into Rachel? Forgive me, Castiel, but I’d rather avoid that bombshell, as it were.” and with that, he closed the door with a snap.

“Lovely,” Castiel muttered, turning towards his bed. “Simply lovely.”

He ran a hand down the soft blanket, and an overwhelming sense of lethargy fell over him. It actually would be lovely to fall asleep right now, to curl up in the blanket and wake later in the day, after they had already set sail, with the pink, flaming setting sun blushing over the rim of the clouds. He could lock the door and windows, and to make sure that Rachel couldn’t get in...

But the room was so cold.

Castiel poked his head around the door, his fingers around the cold bronze doorknob. The dark hallway was empty apart from a pile of barrels and a string of rope hanging from a hole in the ceiling. He stepped out, his boots clicking on the floorboards. He turned a left, a left again, a right, straight for a while...still there was no one. Were they all supposed to stay in their cabins until takeoff?

Finally, he saw someone, a young, vaguely scrawny boy rushing down the hall, pince-nez fastened lopsidedly on the bridge of his nose, several roles of paper hanging limply from his crooked elbow.

“Excuse me!” Castiel called, striding after the boy and catching him by the arm. “Pardon, do you know the way to Engineering?”

They boy turned to look at him, his face panicked, his brown hair falling into his eyes. “I’m not a crewmember sir, only a passenger, sir.”

The young man’s eyes flicked to Castiel’s neck, and he stepped back and bowed. “Master Castiel,” he said, his eyes downcast. “Samandriel, sir. It is an honor, sir.”

Castiel stared at the prostrate figure, glancing down at his own neck. His tags glimmered in the dull light. “Ah, yes,” he replied, nodding at the bronze disks. One printed with his name, ‘Castiel Novak’, the other embossed with two blue stars, the mark of an angel soldier. He wore them both out of habit, and out of some strange sense of nostalgia, if constant remorse and nausea counted as nostalgia.

“If I may, sir,” Samandriel continued, “I do believe that down these steps and through the first door on the left, there should be a crewmember. They should be able to answer any questions you have.”

“You know quite a lot about an airship for a passenger, Samandriel,” Castiel commented. The boy’s face went slightly slack.

“Well, I’ve…I’ve put in my time on airships before. All basically the same construct, you see, sir. I shall leave you to your search then. Good day, Master Castiel.”

Castiel nodded at the boy, who straightened his pince-nez and darted away, the rolls of paper slipping in his skinny arms.

Castiel followed his directions, down the dark, narrow steps, and opened the metal door into what looked like a kitchen. A dark-haired woman stood among the pots and pans, the gleam of sweat and steam glittering on her bare forearms, her crisp white sleeves rolled up to the elbows.

“Can I help you?” she barked at the angel in the doorway. Castiel looked around at the piles of cutlery and dishes hanging from meathooks stuck into the ceiling, at the thick bronze double doors of what be an enormous freezer behind a great black oven.

“I’m looking for Engineering,” he replied quietly. “There seems to be a problem with the heating.”

“If that’s true, you can bet your eyeteeth that someone else has already had a shout about it to the boys,” the woman said, going back to her work, stirring something thick and simmering on the stove. “But if you’re dead set on having your say, Bobby Singer’s the one you want. He’s the head Engineer, he should be able to put it right. Ellen’ll tell you where to go.”

“I…I’m sorry, who’s Ellen?”

“Ellen Harvelle. The Chief Steward. She’s in charge of telling the crew of all the passenger problems. Her name should be on your ticket. No? Then find the one with the badge, the light hair, and the curmudgeonly disposition. If there’s anyone who knows where Bobby’s wandered off to, it’s her. And don’t worry, she doesn’t bite.”

Castiel bowed. “Thank you,” he said, and made to walk out the door. He turned back. “Whatever it is you’re preparing smells delicious, by the way. May I ask your name?”

The woman cocked her head, looking slightly surprised. A lock of dark brown hair fell from the rag covering her head as her lips curved into a soft smile. “Chef Jody Mills,” she replied quietly. “I hope you passengers enjoy it. I know how angels like their rough fare, but up in the air there’s only so much sustenance one can stuff themselves with, so I hope you all don’t mind being rationed.”

“Not at all. Thank you for serving us, Miss Mills,” Castiel said, placing his hand on the doorknob. 

She lifted up her wooden spoon, pointing it at him threateningly. “And if you have any problems with those Engineering boys, you come back to me and I’ll put them right, you can be sure of that, Master-?”

“Castiel. Castiel Novak,” he replied.

Jody nodded. “Don’t let the boys rough you up,” she said, turning back to the pot on the stove. Castiel smiled as he closed the door quietly behind him.

He traveled down five more twisting and turning hallways before finding a woman sweeping around a corner, her still crinoline petticoats rustling against the floor, her bustle and corset lacing her spine straight as an arrow.

“Excuse me, Miss. Are you by any chance Chief Steward Harvelle?”

The woman turned to look at him, one hand on her hip, the other on a wooden tablet fastened with a paper scribbled with notes. “Who wants to know?” she asked, sizing him up through a thick gold monocle, the badge on her chest glinting as much as her eyes.

“I’m a passenger on the ship, ma’am. Castiel Novak. I was told I might inquire to you about a lack of heating in my cabin.”

“Ah, I see.” Steward Harvelle said, removing her monocle and dropping it to dangle on a chain around her neck. “You’ll need a Bobby Singer, Chief Engineer. Go to the staircase at the end of the hallway and head down into the belly. When you come to iron double doors, he should be right behind them. Don’t bother him if he’s working, and _don’t touch anything_. I’ll put in a request for him to solve the problem.”

“Thank you very much,” Castiel replied, already rushing towards the end of the hall.

“Master Novak!” she cried. He turned around to find her glaring at him through her monocle. “I pray you’ll stay out of trouble, sir.”

Castiel nodded. “Absolutely ma’am, as well as I know how.”

The staircases wound down and down, until finally he found himself planted before the great doors. He took a steadying breath and pushed them open. A vast space met his eyes, the far wall nothing but great glass windows overlooking the bustling piers. The floor was covered with benches groaning under piles of gears, tools, and jars of oil and grease. Several bronze propellers sat propped against the side walls, and in the middle of the clutter sat an expansive furnace, black and forbidding as coal. It took a moment to pick out the human from among the debris, but finally Castiel noticed a small figure, or rather, small when compared to the furnace, curled up beside it.  
“Pardon me?” Castiel called quietly. Despite his volume, his voice echoed and bounced along the walls. The figure sat up, nearly banging his head on a protruding furnace pipe.  
“Yes?” the boy asked, sweeping his brown hair out of his eyes.

“Are you Bobby Singer?”

“No, I’m Sam Winchester. I’m second Assistant Engineer. I’ll guess you came to ask about cabin heating, right?”

Castiel nodded.

“Well, I’ve got my brother working on the problem, or rather, he volunteered. He’s already in cabin 2Y5, and you can certainly go and ask him to help you. Make sure you knock first, though,” he said the last sentence as though it was something significant, but whatever it was, Castiel didn’t pick up on it.

“Thank you,” Castiel replied, slipping back out the door. He looked up at the tall flight of stairs before him and sighed.

***

What in God’s name was that unearthly sound? Had they taken off already? What this the sort of noise one could expect from airship travel? But it appeared to be coming only from this one cabin, not 2Y4 nor 2Y6.

Castiel leaned closer to the door, his ear against the wood. Perhaps this room had its own separate furnace. And old clunker too, by the sound of all that moaning and thumping…

Oh.

Castiel leaned back as he felt his face flush. Had the assistant really sent him here? And was he actually expected to knock? Perhaps he should just go back to his room and wait for the problem to resolve itself. …But no. He’d come all this way. Climbed all those godforsaken steps.

He knocked three times on the door, and heard a sharp intake of breath, followed by a great deal of bedspring squeaking and feet padding across the floor. He stepped back against the wall, panicking, and then began walking down the hall at a brisk pace.

“Castiel?”

He turned to see Anna Milton stepping out into the hallway, clad in nothing but a white shift and bloomers. “It’s so lovely to see you again!” she cried, striding forward to wrap her arms around his neck. He shied away, his eyes fixed on the ceiling. “Castiel, whatever is the matter?” she asked, leaning back and looking at him. “Are you feeling quite well? Oh, are you all hot and bothered about this? Come now, you’ve seen me in less than this before, we were in the field together, for goodness’ sake!”

“Combat warrants an entirely different comportment than a high-class airship. Miss Milton, you were my superior,” Castiel said, pushing her off by the shoulders. She swung her bright hair out of her eyes, staring at him in a way that seemed almost like a warning.

“ _Was_ your superior officer,” she corrected. “You need to learn to move on from the battlefield, Castiel. I’ve told you this before.”

“Haven’t I seen you somewhere?” asked a deep voice. Castiel looked over Anna’s shoulder to see a man leaning against the doorframe, smoking a pipe lazily. “That was you knocking, wasn’t it?”

“I’m sorry? I didn’t hear any knocking,” Castiel said airily, making what he hoped was a vaguely puzzled expression.

The man stared at him for a moment, then shrugged and returned his attention to his pipe. He was tan, with freckles marching up his shoulders and across his nose, his honey-coloured hair short and shining in the light from the oil-lamps placed strategically along the walls. His skin was glistening with sweat, a single bead running down his bare chest from his collarbone and down towards the sharp V of his hips, just visible over the low-hanging waistband of his engineer’s trousers. Castiel felt himself staring and blinked.

“My name is Master Castiel, sir. I was just coming to see you about the lack of heating in my cabin. Your brother, Sam Winchester, said I might find you here.”

“Ratted me out, did he?” the man replied, taking the pipe from his mouth and laughing. A thick stream of smoke poured from his nose and mouth like oncoming fog. “All right, if that’s the game he wants to play, I’ll fix that stinking furnace. Although I’m sure my brother’s nearly gotten the thing up and running as it is.”

“Thank you,” Castiel said, bowing slightly. He had just turned to go when the airship gave an almighty lurch. Castiel stumbled backwards, his shoulder blade smacking painfully against the wall. Anna tumbled to the floor, Castiel stumbling over her outstretched arm. The ship righted itself with a great amount of creaking and groaning just as he slipped against the doorframe where the engineer had recently been leaning. The man reached out and grabbed Castiel’s elbow to prevent his falling, pivoting Castiel around until his cheek smacked into his bare chest.

Castiel stared up at the man, who looked down at him in surprise with impossibly green eyes, like something they would be found glowing in a vein of black rock, or between the leaves of a dark forest. Animalistic, wild eyes. Castiel coloured, or perhaps that was just the heat radiating off of the man’s skin. Warmth so concentrated he thought it should burn.

The man cleared his throat, maneuvering his arms under Castiel’s shoulders and pulling him to his feet. “Dean Winchester, second Engineering Assistant,” the man said, sticking out a hand and refusing to meet the angel’s eyes. Castiel awkwardly shook hands with Dean. "That would be the airship taking off," Dean said, jerking his head about to indicate the general kerfuffle.

“I…I’m sorry, Dean Winchester?”

“Yes,” he replied, looking slightly confused. “I did say that was my name, didn’t I?”

“I only thought…well, the stories that proceed you don’t really match up to what I was picturing,” Castiel replied hastily. Dean raised his eyebrows.

“And what stories have you heard, pray tell?”

“That you are an excellent inventor,” Castiel said, not meeting his eyes. “You have produced many wonderful things in your airship service.”

Dean nodded, smirking slightly. “It’s easy enough to tell that that’s not the only story you’ve heard. Feel free to tell me about the others, should you find the time to. I daresay we’ll be seeing each other again.”

“Y-Yes,” Castiel stuttered. “It’s not that big of a ship. I’m sure we will.”

Turning on his heel , he swept away down the hall, one hand stuffed into his trouser pocket, the other tightly gripping the bronze tags around his throat.

Anna got to her feet, brushing a smear of coal from her shift. She glanced up at Dean, but her words died on her lips. Dean was staring down the hall, his green eyes oddly unfocused, the pipe hanging limply from his bottom lip.


	4. Words Are a Matter of Pride

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Business dealings between brothers is a risky business.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry about the slight delay, chickadees, I've been out of town for a spell, but I'm back in black after a record-breaking one hour to write this next chapter. Don't worry, all of this comes back in a big way to Destiel, we're just taking a few minor detours. Thanks so much to Mycolour and Amanthas for the comments! Love hearing from you lovelies!
> 
> Chapter Title Song: Be Prepared, The Lion King (it was only a matter of time before I did a Disney song)

The ship creaked like an old woman’s joints as it trundled through the air, bumping and rocking like a sea vessel.

“This ship is getting old.”

“So are we, Michael. She’s just showing it more than us.”

Michael bit on the end of his pipe, the odor of slightly stale tobacco permeating the air like smog. From out the many-paned windows, scudding clouds filtered the bright sunlight.

Gabriel sat across from his brother, watching his ponderings with an air of omniscience that he always possessed, always had, in fact. “You had no concerns with the ship when you bought her and made yourself captain. You always were quite sure of the old bird,” Gabriel continued. “I wonder if it’s not the ship, but you, who is getting old.”

Michael glared at him. “I am your senior, Gabriel, in both rank and years. Hold your tongue.” Gabriel leaned forward, tapping his pointer finger to his lips and raising an eyebrow at his brother.

“This is never what I had anticipated from this venture,” Michael continued, getting to his feet and walking towards the windows set into the back hull of the ship. “I had always, in a way, trusted him. Perhaps against my better judgment.”

Gabriel, still silent, nodded. “And now he has not only directly disrespected me, but my authority and that of everyone superior to him!” Michael shouted, banging his fist onto the top of the thick desk with such force that a crack burst on the grain. “He has never grown up, not a day in his life! And he doesn’t even understand why he is being punished for his actions.”

“If I may,” said a deep voice. Michael nodded to his brother, and Raphael leaned forward from the shadows. “While I cannot deny that staging a coup for the captaincy was both reckless and foolish in the extreme, you owe it to our brother to explain your reaction. You have never once told Lucifer that you are in direct line for the takeover of the company. He had no way of knowing that, had his mutiny succeeded, he would have gotten much more than an old airship, but a fast company worth millions. You owe it to him to explain why you put him in the brig.”

“It’s the principal of the thing, Raphael,” Michael said, sweeping his coat from around his ankles. “Our brother is foolish, blinded by his own superiority, and shows complete disregard for authority and kindred. This is not about trying to keep the company away from him; it’s a matter of pride. Nonetheless, if he were to extract my seat from me, taking on this ship’s power, debts and earnings, have you any idea what he might do if he had an entire airship fleet at his command?”

“Would he attempt to change it, Michael, as you plan to do?” Gabriel answered.

“I thought I told you to bite your tongue!” Michael shouted, throwing his pipe at his brother, who leaned back and dodged it easily. It hit the wall behind him with a crack, scattering aches and bits of tobacco over the floor.

“Michael, that is no way to deal with such things. Lucifer cannot escape, and after what you have done to make him see the error of his ways, I doubt that he will try such a thing again,” Raphael said harshly. “You cannot react with such anger. Doing such would only provoke others to believe you unfit to hold the presidency of the company.”  
Michael sat back down at the wooden desk, the leather of the studded burgundy armchair squeaking. “Changes will have to be made,” he said, reaching forward and spinning a globe standing on the corner. He stopped it with a finger, staring dazedly at the Virgin Islands. “This ship is meant to be a model for the others. We must have an outstanding crew with an impeccable record to serve as an example.”

“You have seen the crew roster, Michael. What changes would you wish to make?” Gabriel asked.

“The Engineer. The first assistant. What is his name again?”

“Dean Winchester.”

“I want him gone.”

“You cannot be serious,” Gabriel replied, aghast. “Have you no idea of the magnitude of service he has done for this company as a whole? His inventions have tripled our earnings. Throw him out, by all means, but on your own head.”

“Dean Winchester cannot leave, Michael,” Raphael said. Michael looked up at him sharply. Raphael bowed his head. “This one and only time, brother, I must disagree with you. While I am aware of the engineer’s past, he had made up for it in productivity and use. There’s no need to jeopardize such a large portion of our income in order to make a point.”  
“Dean Winchester is a known pugilist against the angel platform,” Michael retorted. “He works for us for the money and nothing more, and only then because there isn’t another ship in all the land that’d take him. Do you really believe that having a human with that much bias and that much power is good for the company?”

“I’m surprised that you dislike his bias and not his more colourful history,” Gabriel said, raising an eyebrow.

“That is another kettle of fish entirely,” Raphael said warningly.

Michael began spinning the globe on the table again, stopping it at regular intervals with his pointer finger. Kenya. Brazil. California. Russia. “When we were fighting in Heaven,” he said quietly, his eyes watching the globe rotate on its bronze stand, ‘there were only two things one would hear about; the war, the thousands of angels slaughtered in the fields, rendering the plantations and crops watered with blood, and the pugilist Dean Winchester, the man who hoped the angels would slaughter each other right through, and then, the few left would go and level Hell and Purgatory. America is a land of equal opportunity, and yet this man believes it be only for humans, standing on boxes in town square and shouting about our hoped-for massacre. And yet, he works for us, an angel run company. What bit of that, I ask you, brothers, makes sense?” Michael finished, his voice risen to a shout.

“What makes sense, brother, is that if Dean Winchester stops being useful even for a moment, we are entirely in our rights to hang him until his head and shoulders separate,” Raphael replied curtly.

“Although, as the incident supposedly happened in England, an American company would be hard-pressed to make a case-” Gabriel began.

“Dean Winchester is convicted of buggery, of bringing disease and pestilence to some poor sod that died the demon rat’s death from the inside out. If that doesn’t constitute a hanging on the first chance, then damn Parliament and their laws,” Raphael cut in, glaring at Gabriel.

Gabriel slunk down in his wooden chair, pulling out a pocket watch and flicking it open lazily. “It’s always the same with you, brothers, just as it was when we were little. I suppose I stand corrected about us growing old,” he said, staring from one to the other expectantly.

On the other side of the door, a dark-haired woman straightened her back, rolling her head on her shoulders and watching the door from under lidded eyes.

“Miss Masters.”

The man who stepped out of the shadows was hardly intimidating. A long brown coat with one too many patches on it, a tin pocket watch hanging from a chain, thin brown hair, and a sycophantic smile plastered onto the wide face. “Not prying, I hope?”

“Certainly not,” she said, stepping quickly away from the door and further down the hall. She adjusted the lace collar of her dress, watching the man closely. “What brings you here, Master Crowley?”

“I was simply bringing the passenger payments to the captain,” he replied, prostrating the pile of parchment folders wrapped in string. “Although, it appears I’m a bit short.”

He took out a folder from the top of the pile, opening it with a flick of the hand. “A Miss Meg Masters, age twenty five, a Hell resident. Same place of origin as yours truly, well done, you,” he said, offering her a congratulatory nod of the head. She did not reply, only stared down at him with the wary expression of an animal about to dart. “Do happen to have any money for me, Miss Masters?” Crowley wheedled.

“I already paid for this ticket, Master Crowley, and I am not required to offer you another payment for another month. The debt may be substantial, but that shall not be incentive to pay more quickly than any other.”

“I believe it is simply a matter of pride, Miss Masters,” Crowley said. “You don’t have the money, just as you didn’t have it last month, or the month before that. You just hate being in debt to me, the airship Purser who somehow pursued you from your hometown.” He stepped closer to her, his acrid breath washing over her like a cloud. “However, what with these,” he reached for her neck, pulling at a string of pearls. “Jewels here, and this,” he reached down and pulled at the burgundy velvet skirt of his dress. She stepped away, her boot heels clicking against the wood, fast and sharp. “…beautiful dress, I daresay you have enough to spare. Which brings me to wonder if you _want_ me to take something from you. I have other methods of payment, you know…”

There was a blade at his throat. Crowley stepped away from Meg as he felt the bit of steel cut into his neck.

“I would keep away from this woman, Master Purser. She doesn’t quite seem to appreciate your company,” said a soft voice in his ear.

“Naturally,” he replied, gulping against the blade. “May I ask who is making such a generous recommendation?”

The blade was released from his neck, and he turned to see a tall woman staring down at him, her shoulders slightly uneven.

“You are Mistress Rachel, are you not?” Crowley asked, squinting at her. “A beautiful face like that is not one I would soon forget.”

“Oh, so pleasant to the woman with the blade,” she replied with mock kindness, slipping the blade back into the hole in what looked like a walking stick. “However, I don’t think killing the ship’s Purser would put me in the best light. Certainly wouldn’t cut down on ticket price, I should think. Luckily for you, the blade is reserved.” she leaned past Crowley, her eyes on Meg. “Are you all right, my dear?”

She nodded stiffly, her arms crossed over the bosom of her dress.

“In that case,” she said, turning back to the Purser. “I shall take my leave. It appears to me that this young woman is also quite beautiful, however, not in your proper age range. I encourage you to forget her face, Master Purser. It’ll give you more time to reminisce about my own.”

With that, Rachel turned and strode off down the hall, every other footstep a dull clunk underneath the sweep of dark blue skirts.

Crowley turned back to Meg as the noise subsided, his eyes narrowed. “You are still in my debt, Miss Masters.”

The woman cocked her head, eyes gleaming in the lamplight. “I thought you had forgotten my face, Master Crowley.”

The two of them leapt back as the door handle to the captain’s quarters turned. Meg sped around the corner, Crowley darting off in the other direction. The three officers walked, out, boots clicking and coats swishing as they walked down the dark corridor, a haze of pipe smoke hovering in their wake as their quiet mutterings subsided.

Meg leaned against the wall, drawing in a deep breath. “Rachel,” she said to herself. “I must remember that name. Rachel.”

She squared her shoulders, took a deep breath, and walked back down the hallway, her trailing skirt following in her wake, the candles in the lamps going out one by one as she passed.


	5. Drink and be Jolly and Drown Melancholy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's never a good idea to go to the deck of the ship. Everything is out in the open there.

Castiel poked at the soused hog’s face wearily. The tough red snout bobbed in the broth like a buoy. He stared down at it for a moment, then sighed and pushed it away. The hall rang with the sound of talk and the soft clink of knives and forks against the ceramic plates, interspersed with the occasional soft scrape of a wooden bench against the floor, the sound magnified by the arching ceiling.

“You don’t look too pleased,” said a deep voice. Castiel turned around and saw Dean smirking down at him, an apron thrown over his engineer’s uniform.

“I…I’ve never eaten meat that was so…whole before,” Castiel replied, turning warily back to the meal.

“Then don’t eat the snout. The broth and vegetables should be all right enough for such fancy tastes,” Dean replied, reaching into a large metal pot he held under one arm with a ladle. He poured another steaming helping of broth into Castiel’s bowl. “Don’t tell Chef Mills, she’ll have my head. We’re supposed to be rationing,” he whispered.

“Certainly,” Castiel said, nodding fervently. “But, why exactly are you serving the passengers? I thought you were an engineer.”

“What can I say? I dabble,” Dean replied. “Chef Mills often uses us for serving when she’s too busy, or doesn’t feel like dealing with the passengers. Often the latter. But cooking’s basically the same as engineering, all putting the proper parts together. This is my work tonight. Thought I’d give Chef a night off. What do you think?”

Castiel glanced down at the plate before blinking and turning back to Dean. “The broth is excellent,” he replied. Dean laughed, tilting his head, his green eyes crinkling like sheet corners.

“Well, then I’d be happy to tell you how to make it,” he replied. “Find me on the deck after supper, and I’ll get you a drink. Technically saved for the crew, but you seem like you could use an easer.”

He swaggered away, the broth pot swinging slightly under his arm. Castiel watched him go, before turning back to his brimming bowl. 

***

The wind was cool and crisp on the deck, and Castiel breathed in the scent of cool air with relish, having spent the last several days in the cabin. During the initial takeoff, he had been too anxious to step foot outside, thinking he would fall, or someone would recognize him. Both thoughts were equally terrifying. But the passengers lounging on the deck took no notice of him, either talking quietly amongst themselves, reading on wooden rocking chairs placed about the deck, or promenading quietly along the railings.  
The wind burned and expanded in his lungs, filling him up like a balloon. There was a strange peace about the ship, trundling lazily through the skies, as though it had no destination in mind. Like an old, fat bird, simply traveling for the sake of stretching his wings, the rhythmic chug of the engines the beating of its aged heart.

Castiel was so enwrapped in the methodic cadence of the ship that he didn’t notice the hand on his shoulder for a moment. He started, his hand reaching for his pocket, before he realized that the hand was too rough, too heavy to belong to the person he thought it was, and he no longer carried a knife with him anymore.

Dean smiled down at him, the apron gone. His nose and the tips of his ears had gone slightly pink in the cold breeze, and he held his leather jacket closed with a hand.

“Drink?” he asked, proffering a flask in his direction. Castiel shook his head.

“Might not be the best idea. I don’t have the stomach for it,” Castiel replied. “Especially not on an airship.”

“Good thing the railing is right there, then,” Dean said, jerking his head towards the side of the ship. “And you look like you could use a drink. Just take it, it ain’t going to bite.”

Castiel glanced warily down at the dark grey metal flask. It was like it was staring up at him, daring him. Gritting his teeth, he grabbed it and took a swig, the lip burning a cold circle against his lips. The liquid sloshed straight to his stomach, burning and churning like a writhing dragon. He coughed, feeling the cold air flood into his mouth and quench the spicy smolder to a slight degree. Dean chuckled, looking through his lashes at Castiel.

“I didn’t mean for you to drink all of it,” he said, taking the flask back. “Gotta pace yourself. I like your stomach, though.”

Castiel nodded. It could just be his imagination, but the edges of his vision already looked a tiny bit blurry.

“It feels better, doesn’t it? I don’t mean to be too frank, Master Castiel, but you had that look in your eyes,” Dean nodded his head, his voice suddenly lower, more serious. “Like you’re running from something inside you. So, you can do what you seem to be doing, letting it use you for a puppet, or you can do what I do.” Dean raised the flask as though toasting the angel. “Drown it. And keep drowning it. Problem with problems, you see; they float.”

Castiel stared at him, his mouth open slightly. Dean took a swig from the flask, then lowered it slowly as he registered the look on Castiel’s face. “Forgive me, sir. I didn’t mean to cause offence,” he said quietly.

“No,” Castiel said, shaking his head fervently. “Please. No offense taken. None at all. And please, call me Castiel.”

“If you call me Dean, and not Winchester, then I shall oblige you, by all means,” Dean replied, the corner of his mouth quirking up in the briefest smile. Castiel nodded. “Have you seen the animals, Castiel?” Dean asked, pointing towards the railing.

Castiel turned around to see a small flock of glittering green lights, flicking in and out of the wispy clouds. They zigged and zagged like bugs on the surface of the water, or flickering fish in a stream.

“They’re cloud mites,” Dean said, pointing as one darted up to his face, as though it was trying to kiss the tip of his nose. Castiel assumed there must be some sort of body attached to it, but the light shining from the insect was so bright that it might as well have been a faery. “Nasty little buggers. During mating season, they all fly into the engine and clog it right up tight like. I usually put Sammy in charge of digging them all out,” he chuckled, startling the mite back into the clouds. “They’re attracted to the warmth of the ship.”

“Do they ever glow another colour?” Castiel asked, walking closer to the railing and trying to get a better look. The swarm of insects seemed to be following them, but not another one passed over the railing.

Dean nodded. “Sure do, when they’re near different types of electricity. That’s why they fly into the engines; it gives off all kinds of power an’ makes them glow bright red, easier for mates to spot them. In fact,” he said, reaching into his jacket, “I taught them a little trick.”

He pulled out a strange metal and leather object from his jacket. Castiel leaned forward, trying to get a good look at it. It looked like some sort of glove, or gauntlet, with metal scales lining the wrist, the fingertips made out of hammered tin. Dean slipped it on, flexing his fingers through the glove. He shook it a few times, then pointed it at the mites, his hand open, palm outstretched.

All at once, the mites stuttered in the air, as though someone had taken the needle off of their record. Like a wave, they shivered, and their lights flickered and glowed bright anew, this time a shining, deep gold. Castiel grinned, the cold air burning and numbing his gums and chapped lips. He laughed when Dean raised his hand again, and the glowing mites changed to a royal blue, then pink, then ruby red. Castiel clapped his hands, the alcohol in his system singing. “They’re beautiful!” he cried, and several passengers looked askance at him as they passed. Dean, however, smiled broadly. “How’d you make that?” Castiel asked, pointing at the glove.

“Magnets in the fingers. They’re powered by static electricity and produce an electrical charge. Now even dumb old sons can have telekinetic abilities. It burns the skin though, so don’t touch it,” he said, leaning back as Castiel made a grab for the metal fingers. The jostling must have caused another pulse of energy, for the mites suddenly glowed silver, and Castiel laughed again.

“You must not have very many insects where you come from,” he replied, pulling off the glove. Before them, the mites dissolved back into green.

“Oh, we’ve got plenty,” Castiel replied, nodding. “Lightning bugs, mostly, floating over the fields at dusk. It was a big problem on the plantation, what with all of the wheat-eaters.”  
Dean’s smile faltered, and he blinked at Castiel. “Plantations? You’re not an angel, are you?”

Castiel opened his mouth, but no sound came out. His throat seemed to have left the premises. “I’m a resident of Heaven, yes,” he said finally, nodding curtly and silently cursing his decision to drink.

“I see,” Dean said, raising his eyebrows slightly. He opened his mouth, closed it, opened it again, and began to walk back along the deck.

“Wait,” Castiel said, reaching forward and grabbing the sleeve of his jacket. “Did I do something to offend you, Dean?”

“I…no,” Dean sighed, turning back to him. “No, I don’t suppose you _personally_ did.”

“And yet you will do me a disservice by turning your back on me?” Castiel continued, raising his eyebrows. “I took you for an honest man, Dean Winchester.”

Dean stared at him for a moment. Then, he threw back his head and laughed. His shoulders shook, and his mouth opened wide enough to drink the clouds. His laughter shook the floorboards, and several travelers strode angrily towards the door leading to the lower decks. “If there’s one thing you wish to know about me, Castiel Novak,” Dean said at last, wiping a tear from his eye, “It is that I am not, by any stretch of the imagination, an honest man.”

“Good,” Castiel replied angrily. “Neither am I.”

Dean glanced down at him, the last of his laughter subsiding. “Two birds of a feather, then. Good.”

Castiel stared up at him, and found himself unable to look away. Had the engineer put magnets in his eyes as well? What a dreadful operation that would be. Perhaps that’s what made them so green. It took all the cloud mites and spring leaves of the world and hung them in his eyes. Lightning bug eyes. Here and gone in a moment.  
Castiel shook his head, clearing his thoughts. It occurred to him that there was a small hand tugging at the hem of his coat.

“Sir?”

Castiel glanced down to see a little girl, all black curls and blue eyes, staring up at him, an old stuffed lion clutched in one fat fist.

“Yes?” Castiel asked, kneeling down to be level with her. “Can I help you, little one?”

“Are you an angel?” she asked, her big eyes swimming in her pale face.

“Yes,” Castiel replied, nodding.

“Did you fight? Mommy told me all the angel boys are fighters.”

Castiel glanced over his shoulder at Dean, who was looking over the railing towards the clouds. It was obvious enough that he was taking in every word.

“No, I didn’t fight. What is your name?” he asked quickly.

“Hael,” she replied.

“Why are you asking me about fighting, Hael?”

“Because you’ve got tags on your neck.”

Castiel reached up and grabbed the bronze disks, feeling his heart hammering in his chest. “These belonged to my brother,” he said quickly. “I never fought, and he didn’t make it. These are what I have left of him.”

“Oh,” Hael said, looking down at the floorboards, her small brows furrowed. “Are you two married?” she asked, looking up again enthusiastically.

“ _No,_ ” Castiel and Dean said in unison, staring down at her.

"Oh, good," Hael said, sounding relieved. "Mummy said that you looked like you were, and that if it was true, they were going to kill you for your sin."

“Don’t talk about things like that,” Dean said angrily. “Or about war, neither. Where are your parents? Run along to them.”

“All right,” she said, and skipped away, the little stuffed lion dragging on the deck.

Castiel stood back up and stared beyond the railing, feeling the flush rise up his neck, refusing to look at Dean.

“A soldier, huh?” he heard the voice behind him say, and there was venom behind the words. “Didn’t realize there were so many of you. Disposable, I gather. Like flies.”  
“Not all of us fought,” Castiel replied, still with his eyes fixed on the horizon. His words sounded hollow, dead, even to his own ears. “The Loyalists and Rebels were few in number, and the rest of us suffered the consequences. I’m no soldier, I promise you. No one would ever think to call me as such.”

There was a silence behind him. Castiel’s fingers twitched so fast, he could practically feel the air bending around them. “Not to be too forward, Master Novak, but I know a liar and a cheat when I see one,” Dean said finally. Castiel’s breath hitched in his throat, as though he’d gotten a fishhook caught in there. “Whatever you’re running from, you ain’t gonna be able to outrun it. God help your soul.”

Castiel stayed stock still, listening to the boots thumping away growing fainter and fainter. It felt as though the wind had seeped into his joints, slithered into his very bones and gnawing them from the marrow outwards. His fingers twitched.

“Castiel?”

Castiel spun around, his hand raised, his eyes wild, bones burning. Anna screamed and ducked her head. “Castiel!” she cried. He slowly lowered his hand, blinking at the top of her prostrate head.

“Anna-! Forgive me, please. You startled me,” he said lamely. Anna slowly rose, her eyes wary and watchful.

“Is there anything I can do to help, Castiel?” she asked quietly, as though she was afraid a loud noise would startle him into aggression.

“No, I…I just got into a bit of a disagreement with a crewmember. A small matter; I don’t know him personally enough to take it to heart.”

Anna stepped closer, her eyes hardening, and Castiel felt his stomach plummet. “I heard what you said, Castiel,” she said. “About you not being a soldier.”

“I…” Castiel began, but Anna held up her hand, so close to his face that he could examine the lacework on her black gloves.

“Castiel, I’ve known you from recruitment to the barricades and back. I know what you’ve done. But you _cannot_ outrun your past, Castiel. Do you understand me? You must own what you have done, and learn to move past it. Letting it haunt you is as good as a slow suicide.”

His bones had suddenly turned to iron, and he felt his blood heating under his skin. “You know nothing of me, Anna,” he snarled. “I have not changed what I stand for after I left the battlefield. You, you stood for honor and nobility. And look at you now, some sort of whorehouse consort.”

“How dare you!” Anna hissed, reaching forward and grabbing a fistful of Castiel’s coat, dragging him close to her face. “How dare you accuse me of running! Of not standing before my troubles. I did not abandon what I stood for, Castiel. I did not abandon anyone. You did. What honor is there in a soldier who deserts?”

Castiel’s breath came hot and searing in his throat. “Exactly. There is none. I’m no decent soldier, so why should I say that I’m any sort of soldier at all? I thought you would have mentioned that earlier, but the last time I saw you, you were…preoccupied.” Anna’s expression hardened, her fingers tightening in his coat.

“Now,” Castiel said, leaning back, “release me, please, Mistress Milton. I don’t want any of our fellow passengers to think I’m paying you.”

Anna threw her hand down, throwing him one last hateful look and striding away, her long blue skirts sweeping around her ankles.

Castiel watched her go, then sighed, running a hand through his hair. He suddenly felt extremely, extraordinarily tired. He should go and make an attempt to rest. Emphasis on attempt. There was no such thing as a good sleep anymore, not with the nightmares to contend with, and the flimsy locks on the doors. He should ask to see if he could get a better one tomorrow. He would ask the second Assistant Engineer next time, or the third. A stiff breeze blew at his back, seeming to carry him across the deck and towards the door.

The breeze swirled over the deck, slithering around the long hem of an old, heavy hemp skirt. The woman put her hand down on the fabric, stilling it, then looking across the deck, at the angel who was closing the door behind him. Meg’s eyes narrowed, one hand reaching for the neck of her blouse and the chain that hung beneath it, and the other tightening its hold on the cheap, ragged fabric at her hips.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, full explanation: In my story, which takes place in America, it has been divided into four sections: The North, up near Canada, Purgatory, the East Coast, Earth, the South, from North Carolina down to the west border of Texas, Hell, and the West Coast, Heaven. People from each section are called monsters, humans, demons, and angels, respectively, however, they are all human beings regardless of origin. About a year before this fic takes place, there was a great civil war in Heaven, involving the Loyalists, those that believed in and served God, and the Revolutionaries, those who did not. Castiel was on the side of the Revolutionaries, but deserted before the war was won. If needed, I'll add a little prologue piece in the beginning to explain all the little bits and pieces, 'cos I know not everyone wants to read the notes. Thanks again to my lovely commenters, it's lovely hearing from you!
> 
> Chapter song title- Spanish Ladies, sea shanty


	6. Grant Them Rest

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A chapel for all bargains.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I promised a chapter this weekend and it's basically Tuesday, but I promise I won't be abandoning this fic! I hope you like it, leave a comment or subscribe and I promise the Destiel will be coming hard and fast from now on.
> 
> Chapter Song Title: English Translation of Pie Jesu, Andrew Lloyd Webber

_"Pie Jesu, pie jesu,_  
Qui tollis peccata mundi,  
Dona eis requiem, dona eis requiem…" 

The echoes of the room seemed to fill the air with particles of some identifiable substance. It was as though he could feel it clinging to him, dust or shimmering specks or perhaps the music notes themselves, floating and hovering before vanishing into the aether…

_"Pie Jesu, pie jesu…"_

His voice was hoarse and off-key. Was it another sign of lack of sleep? He’d gotten so little of it, ever since he came back…but he had never been that good of a singer anyway. When they had sung at night, around the lanterns, in the smell of the oil lamps, they had made sure he kept his voice quiet…

_"Agnus Dei, agnus dei…"_

“You’re loud.”

Castiel’s head twitched to the side, but he didn’t look around towards the chapel door. “I didn’t realize you could hear me from Engineering,” he replied.

“I wasn’t in Engineering. At three o’clock in the morning, there’s nothing that needs fixing.”

Dean padded softly across the cold floor, sitting down with a creak in the pew behind Castiel’s. Castiel glanced back at him. The engineer was wearing nothing but an old pair of ill-fitting pants hanging low on his hips, his hair mussed and his arms crossed tightly over his bare chest, his eyes half-lidded.

“Master Winchester, I didn’t mean to wake you.”

“I wasn’t sleeping. And it’s Dean.”

“I didn’t realize that was still in effect.”

“It’s always in effect.”

Castiel looked down at his hands folded in his lap, rolling his lips together pensively. He’d been able to avoid them all for three days, but it appeared it was simply not meant to be. Another reason why he didn’t frequent churches. Everything he dreaded always seemed to happen in one.

“Actually, I should be getting to bed. Quite late, you know,” he said, getting to his feet. As his passed by the pew, Dean reached out and grabbed his wrist.

“Tell me where you’re from,” he said.

“I beg your pardon?”

“Where are you from? Where you were born. What does it look like?”

“Why are you asking me this?” Castiel asked, trying to pull away.

“Because it’s early in the morning, I’m curious, and I can’t sleep. Now, tell me.” Castiel stared at him expressionlessly. “Please.”

“I’m from Heaven,” Castiel finally said resignedly, sighing and sitting down beside Dean on the pew. “We lived on the coast, right next to the ocean. I could hear it when I woke up every morning. And later, when all the trouble was starting, we moved further inland, bought the plantation…and then there was a call for soldiers. And when they didn’t get enough volunteers, they were drafted. The government has refused to release that particular detail to the public, but I think you might be able to understand why. They didn’t want the others to know that no one wanted to fight in the war. The other districts, I mean.”

Castiel cleared his throat, then looked up at Dean. “And you? Where do you hail from?”

“Earth,” Dean said simply. “Well, Hell, if you want to get technical. But I’m no demon, mark my words. Human through and through. My daddy made some bad deals when he was younger and got us into some right straights, and then pulled us out to earth when we were teenagers. My brother Sammy, he wanted to go to school there. But before then, we spent a hell of a lot of time in deep Hell, in the bayou. Now, I promise you I’m the last one to go talking about a place of that nature with any sort of pride, but it’s a sight to behold, I tell you. It’s like you’re all alone there on the water, no one but the trees and the bugs and frogs can hear you, and if you whistle a tune…well, it’s like Mother Nature’s singing right along with you. Plus, the food is superb,” he said, clearing his throat. “But Earth is where my heart lies, not that backwater rat district. Ain’t nothing good about Hell. But after we went to Earth, by daddy died, Sammy went to school, and I was on my own. And when I was gone, Sammy…Sammy got real sick. And I didn’t think he would make it unless I took him to a doctor, but there ain’t many doctors who could be paid for with a cheap old forest hunter’s wages. I took out jobs, fixing and such, but nothing near enough. Then of course there was the law trouble-”

“What Balthazar was speaking of,” Castiel said before he could stop himself. Dean jerked his head around, staring at him.

“Who the hell’s Balthazar?”

“A passenger,” Castiel said quickly. “he told me that you had nearly been hung for buggery.”

Dean’s eyes widened, and Castiel swallowed shakily. “I simply…is it true? I cannot help but doubt such a ludicrous statement.”

Dean leaned back in the pew, the wood creaking as he leaned up against the back. “Let me tell you something, Castiel,” he replied, sounding far too casual for the situation. “I know that you Heaven fold have this stigma against buggery and all its forms. But I tell you, it’s not like that. Not the way you imagine it anyway. Like I said, I couldn’t pay the bills, so I had to turn to other ways of making a living. Now, don’t look at me like that,” he said, waving a hand at Castiel’s askance face. “I ain’t asking for no trouble, I’m telling it like it is. I know how much you don’t like what your friend Anna’s gotten up to since leaving you last saw her, but it’s a noble line of work. Well, maybe not noble, but it gets the job done. Anyway, I couldn’t afford to be too picky with my customers, you see, and eventually I started getting telegrams and house calls…discreet, mind you, slipping bank notes under the door discreet…but I did what I had to do, and Sammy got better. Until the law found me, I thought that whatever Almighty there be had decided to let me go for a good cause.”

“But then…but then how did you get out? If you’d gotten arrested,” Castiel asked.

“The captain of the boat saved me. He bought up my invention the day before I was to be hung. I’d already said my goodbyes to Sammy when I get a knock on the cell door, and I look around and it’s a man with a telegram saying that I was to report to work tomorrow. Well, I can’t tell you what that meant, Castiel, and I owe Captain Michael my life, however much I don’t want to admit it. And I know if he could have, he would have left me to rot in that cell and taken my brain instead. It’s just a good thing I’m the only one who knows how to work it,” he said, winking and tapping a pointer finger to his temple.

Castiel looked at him, biting his lip. The familiar push and pull sensation was nagging at him. “You should pray,” he said finally. “Things have a way of getting better if you pray.”  
“That so? How often did you pray in the force, Castiel?” Dean asked, leaning back and glancing through his eyelashes at Castiel. 

Castiel opened and closed his mouth defiantly. “Well, what do you do instead?” he asked aggressively.

“I don’t pray, Castiel, I wish and I hope. Carries a bit less meat behind it, a bit less of a chance for disappointment.”

“But they’re not the same thing. Praying is for things you don’t have. Wishing is taking things you do have and making them better. That’s how it works.”

“Says who?” Dean replied. “What do I need to pray for? I have everything I could ever want right here. I’ve got a job, I’ve got Sammy, I’ve got my life and a home and food on the table. I don’t see what praying needs to be done here.”

“You haven’t got protection,” Castiel replied.

Dean opened his mouth slightly, as though words on the tip of his tongue were trying to look through a window. “No,” he said at last. “No, I haven’t got that. But neither do you, Castiel. Is that what you’ve been praying for? Why you’re singing in this godforsaken chapel at half past Hell’s night? And where’s it gotten you?”

Castiel glared at him. “You’re not supposed to pray for protection, Castiel,” Dean continued. “You’re supposed to beg.”

“Beg who?”

“Beg me.”

“Excuse me?”

“Now look, I don’t know what happened, Castiel,” Dean said, holding up a cautionary hand, “out there in the battlefield. I know there are things I don’t want to know. But I’ve been around a few times in my day, and I’ve seen things that could make anyone’s skin crawl. And I know that look in your eyes like my own hand, that haunted look, like you’ve seen things that are so real that they make the monsters in your nightmares crawl right out of your head, and if you open your mouth at the wrong moment, it’s gonna bleed gore. Sammy’s got the same eyes. I’ve got the same. And so I’m giving you an offer, Castiel: Protection for protection. You, as a premier class passenger, put in a good word for me with the captain so I can keep working on this ship, and I’ll fix whatever it is that’s causing you pain. Anything at all, I’ll take care of it. How does that sound?”

Castiel stared at the man, dumbstruck. Dean sighed casually, turned toward Castiel, one elbow on the back of the pew. The candles at the altar flickered with an orange haze, reflecting dully off the skin of his freckles shoulders, like speckled stained glass windows, mirrors of the ones around the ceiling of the chapel. A holy place. A sacred place. Not a place to make deals with a bugger. And also, no place for him either.

“You don’t even know what I’ve done.”

“Castiel, my brother just spent an hour filling his veins with hop, and is either lying catatonically on his cot, or is trying to get a pry-in on one of the female passengers, probably one that sleeps naked. Whatever you’ve done, you’ll fit right in. I’m only asking you for protection, and in return I’ll make it all go away. Give you some rest.”

Dean proffered a hand to him, but Castiel shied away. It was like it was staring at him, wanting, begging for something. However casual Dean might seem, he was roiling with desperation just under the surface. And Castiel knew better than anyone what desperation did to a human. Drive them mad. Send them into the darkness. Plunge a dagger. Throw a grenade.

“I killed a man,” Castiel said, his fingers an inch from Dean’s hand. He looked up at him, looking into his bright green eyes, clear and sharp as glass. Waiting for them to shatter, for the blinds to close. Let's see him approve the deal then. "In cold blood. With a dagger." 

But miraculously, they remained open and untarnished.

“Something as simple as that? Your wish is my command, brother,” Dean replied, grabbing Castiel’s hand and grinning. Beyond them, the painted Vestal face watched from the gold-leaf portrait, the altar candles flickering against the shining metal, but most of it absorbed by the two pairs of gleaming eyes, and the exposed skin that swallowed the fire into the bones.


	7. You're Toxic

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There's someone in the room.

Despite the furnace having been repaired, the room was still rather cold. Castiel crossed the room and into the small water closet. It still smelled vaguely of steam, indicating the lack of ventilation in the tiny room. There was nothing there but a metal toilet, a basin, and a shower only a few feet in any direction, but to him it looks like the most pleasant place in the world. He undressed quickly, throwing his clothes into the main room, before turning the bronze handle and stepping under the steaming spray. He imagined that the water was pulled up through a complex series of pipes, zipping through S bends shaped like staircases and loops and forming intricate designs of metal, before shooting out of the showerhead to fall back into the drain and repeat the process. Perhaps, if every passenger bathed at the same time, the ship would be heated by all the hot water flying through the circumference of the Seraphim. But it would only work in the men’s chambers; the women’s cabins were equipped with baths. But perhaps, if they all turned them on at the same time… 

Castiel ran a hand through his dripping hair, breathing heavily. No matter what he tried to think about, he couldn’t get past the thoughts that formed a wall in his head. He was in peril, there was no denying it now. The deal he had made, just hours before…to make it in a church, it was foolhardy and unwise. How could he be so frivolous with his soul as that? But naturally the argument would be that he had already done enough to ensure his eternal damnation, and a simple dealing in a chapel wouldn’t make it any worse for him. And yet, there was something else, something more sinful, that had passed. What it was, though, he hadn’t the faintest. But the moment he shook Dean’s hand, he could feel something pulsing, fluttering between their hands, like they’d captured a little bird beating its frantic head against their fingers. And Dean’s eyes, as they’d stared at him, as though they were trying to read him, see through him to the other side, turning the skin transparent and the muscles to water…

Castiel turned the handle, the water slowing and dripping in a dreary litany from the lip of the faucet. He leaned his head back against the wall, one hand pressing into the protruding veins at his wrist. He pressed down hard, as though he wanted to still the blood, to stop the pounding his heart and give his brain some quiet time to think…  
But there was nothing more to think about. Rachel wanted to find him, whether to rail against him for destroying her leg or worse, he did not know. And he’d gotten hopelessly tangled up with a crewmember in a way that he never would have wanted. But what was it that panicked him so? The deal, or the man’s history? Dean Winchester exhibited every sign of an honorable man, but there was something so strange about him, his face when he looked at Castiel, eyes that seemed to burn as through they’d been plucked from the bottom of a fireplace, the way his body leaned forward, as though wanted to reach and touch him, hurt him, strangle him…

Castiel stepped out of the shower roughly, holding the heels of his hands to his temples, as though trying to hold in his brain. Everything hurt so much, everything so unsure, so fluctuating, waves crashing and beating at his head. He could feel the rivulets of water falling from his hair and streaking down his bare back and legs, warm and wet and so much like blood…

He didn’t notice the body lying on the bed until he reached blindly for his shirt, only to discover that there was a leg lying across it.

Castiel gasped raggedly and staggered away, slamming into the wall, one hand holding his dripping hair back from his forehead, his eyes so big they might pop from their casing,  
“Hello, Castiel. You do remember me, don’t you?” asked the dark-haired woman, crossing her legs under the thin, sheer fabric. “Or has it been too long?”

Castiel opened his mouth, presumably to speak, but there wasn’t a hint of effort put into the endeavor. The woman sat up, crossing her legs and arms and leaning forward, exposing a perfect view down the front of her thin gown. “I haven’t changed that much, have I?”

“I didn’t realize…that you were on the _Seraphim_ ,” Castiel said finally, his fingernails scratching and twitching against the wall.

“You didn’t realize that I was still alive, you mean,” the woman replied. “Little Meg Masters, how could she have escaped the demon purging? But I did, and moreover, I haven’t forgotten, Castiel. Any of it.”

She got up off the edge of the bed, the sheer fabric falling to her ankles. Castiel tried very, very hard to keep his eyes on her face. If he could, he would be looking at the ground, far away and getting closer all the time, on his way falling down to it, from the edge of the railing. “Don’t tell me…” she said quietly as she walked closer, silent as a shadow. 

“Castiel, don’t tell me you’ve forgotten.”

Castiel remained silent.

“Not a day went by when I didn’t think of you. Didn’t wish you would come back so that I could kill you for leaving in the first place,” Meg corrected with a small chuckle. “But now you’re here, and I didn’t know what to say. What would I even say to you? That what we had wasn’t important? I’d say that in a heartbeat, but I don’t want to lie to you so soon.”  
“I know what you’re trying to do, Meg. You want to manipulate me. Just as you did when we were younger,” Castiel replied, trying to sound fiery and definite. It might have worked if his voice wasn’t shaking so very much. “But you don’t have that power over me anymore. I’ve grown older. And you were supposed to as well.”

“Grow older? You took that possibility with you when you left,” Meg said, her tone growing icy. “You left me for the war, and I had to move back to my childhood home, where they proceeded to wipe us out like _maggots!_ Did you ever think of me when you fought, Castiel? Even once? Did you ever think, perhaps, as you lay dying, bleeding out, that you would never be able to tell Meg that you loved her?” her voice had gone quiet again, as though whispered from the other end of a long, dark cave.

Castiel sighed. His whole body seemed to sag like the skin of a corpse, but his fingertips still beat a tattoo against the wall, pulling at the wall, bits of paper edging themselves under his scrabbling fingernails.

“You came to me as a nightmare,” he replied raggedly. “I saw your face in my mind, and I screamed. I had hoped that I would never have to see you again.”

Meg stared up at him, her dark eyes fathomless, empty, a dimple in her jaw twitching and jumping erratically. Suddenly, she flew forward, her arms wrapping around Castiel’s neck. He thrashed his body in a kneejerk reaction, but she had already wrapped him in a tight embrace, her face buried in the crook of his neck, her breath ghosting over his throat like an animal a second from the kill. Castiel stood rigid, as though inflicted with premature rigor mortis. His brain was detonating, popping like a dislodged joint and rattling around in his skull, the sepia memories throwing it from one end to the other in a frenzy, like the flickering of a moving picture. His fingernails audibly scraped against the wall, and Meg raised her head from his shoulder, reaching out a hand and pulling his from the wall. “Castiel…my poor sweet boy, what did they do to you?” she asked, pulling his fingers towards her mouth and kissing his knuckles softly. Castiel felt his breath hitch in his throat. How long had it been? He couldn’t help but wonder. Years, at the very least. And after all that time, he’d never fully realized how much he’d missed it. 

That, of course, was something Meg already knew.

“It’s your grenade hand, isn’t it?” she asked, looking up at him. “This is the hand you used to throw...but that woman. The woman with the one leg. That was your fault, wasn’t it?”  
Castiel’s head spasmed as he looked down at her, her arms still wrapped around him. “How do you know about Rachel?” he asked sharply.

“She wants to kill you, Castiel,” Meg said earnestly. “But it’s all right, I can help you.”

“I already have help,” he said before he could stop himself.

“What, the engineer? The one with the brother on hop? What sort of help could he possibly give you?” she asked sharply. Castiel pushed her away, and she stumbled back, looking at him reproachfully. 

“I don’t need your help, Meg,” Castiel said. “It’s been a long time since I’ve needed anything from you.”

“Is that so? Because it’s been a while since you knew I was in your room, and you didn’t once ask me about how I got in, when the door was completely locked,” she said acidly. “You trust me, Castiel, enough to know not to ask questions. Don’t question me about this. You need my help. And I’m charitably willing to give it.”

“I don’t need you, Meg. I don’t need you, and I don’t want anything you could possibly give me. You can’t tell me anything that I don’t know already. This whole business is of no concern to you.”

“I told you about Rachel,” Meg retorted. “You can’t possibly tell me you knew about that already.”

Castiel opened his mouth, but he couldn’t think of anything to say. His stomach was churning and roiling, drowning his words. He could only shake his head mutely.  
“I can give you all the information you need, Castiel,” Meg said, sitting back down on the edge of the bed. “I have ways of learning everything about this ship. I can tell you how to be safe from Rachel. I only need the smallest bit of monetary assistance from you in return.”

Despite his panic, Castiel smirked. “You’ve fallen into debt, Meg, haven’t you? Just like I always said.”

“The man who wants my money is willing to hurt me to get it, Castiel. To toy with my honor in return for payment. He wants more than I can afford to give him. I’m asking for a loan, not a gift. I assure you that whatever you lend will be repaid in full. I’m only asking that you remember the poor girl you used to be so fond of.” Meg said coldly.

“ Why haven’t you just become a fancy lady? It’s worked admirably well for several others. I hear the money’s good.”

“Well, I had an alternate plan of action if negotiation didn’t work,” she said, raising her arms and gesturing towards her revealing gown. “I had hoped I might have been able to stir some…dormant feelings of passion in you? I must say, I picked a very fortunate time. I hadn’t realized that you would be unclothed. Perhaps I should have opened with my second plan.”

Castiel’s eyes widened, and he could feel the flush spread from his chest and up over his neck and cheeks, but he made no move to cover himself. Any attempt now would be far too little, too late. 

“It’s nothing I haven’t seen previously,” Meg said, waving an airy hand. “Although you’ve put on muscle since I last saw you. I daresay carrying me wouldn’t be a hardship now. But that’s not important,” she said, waving a hand. “You _need_ me, Castiel. I promise that I can help you. And I don’t really think you want two women on this ship who feel they need to exact revenge upon you.”

“What happened to Rachel was an accident. And you…I never meant to hurt you.”

“But you felt I deserved it.”

“I felt like it would be better if I had left,” Castiel replied sharply. “I was the one who came out worse in the end. You want money? Fine, I’ll happily oblige. But I don’t want you doing anything for me, Meg. I don’t want you to feel like I owe you. Do you understand me?”

“I thought you understood, Castiel,” Meg said, cocking her head to one side and stepping towards him. “You’ll always owe me for what you did. This is just the start.”  
“I left you, Meg, without any knowledge of what would happen when you moved back to Hell,” Castiel said vehemently. “If I had known, I never would have gone. I would have found some way around it. I know how strong you are, and I know that this has weighed on you. What more could you want but my apologies?”

“I want the time that was lost.”

“I can’t give you that.”

“Then I’ll settle for your money,” she said airily, striding towards the cabin door. “Three hundred notes by Monday, if you please. I know that won’t be a hardship for you.”  
She stopped, her hand on the doorknob. She turned back to Castiel, and if he had been more naïve, he would have thought that there was a flicker of regret in her dark eyes.  
“If I were to come back, Castiel…would you open the door for me?”

“I…I don’t…I’m not dressed, leave my room!” he stammered, waving his hand at her. She smiled indulgently.

“Goodbye, Castiel. We’ll see each other soon.” 

And with that, she closed the door.

Castiel reached for a towel, but realized that he had dried off during his talk with Meg. He slipped his shirt over his head, put on his trousers, and decided there was no reason to bother with shoes. He didn’t feel like venturing back out into the ship that day. He tried to make himself comfortable in the armchair beside the porthole, but he twisted and turned so much that he finally got up and began to pace around the room, finally reaching for his luggage and pulling out his pocketbook, from which he pulled a dozen or so banknotes, setting them on the bedside table. As reminders.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? I personally find Megstiel fascinating from a purely manipulative perspective. I always thought they could be the ultimate power couple if they were so much more suited for other characters. And don't worry, while I'm using an old relationship of there's for a plot device, it's not going to turn into anything more than that. Leave a comment if you have any criticism! Thanks for reading!


	8. God Made The Outcasts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Only a fortnight.

The sunlight blazed through the workshop, throwing its rays zinging off the planes of copper and tin. Dean looked up, squinting and rubbing his eyes. Working in the morning was the worst, when the sun was glaring from the east and right through the tall windows. But, things would be worse for him if he couldn’t get the water supply back into the kitchen, if Jody had any say in it. And Jo was already fixing a leak in another cabin, and Sammy was sleeping. He’d been sleeping a lot recently, more than he usually did. But then again, they hadn’t been on a ship in quite some time. Perhaps he was simply getting back into the lull of ship life. But there was always the matter of the dream stick and the hop. Why had he allowed Sam to continue to use it? Beside the fact that it could do such dreadful things to the rats if they should get a hold of it, that was nothing compared to what it would do to Sammy. And he was so young.

No. No he wasn’t. He was a fully grown adult, and could do whatever he damn well pleased. It wasn’t Dean’s job to nursemaid him anymore. Sam could go on by himself these days.

There was a creak as the workshop door was opened. Dean looked up to see the Captain stride in, his coat billowing at his ankles and a pipe fixed firmly in the corner of his mouth, a dark-suited man beside him. At their heels ran Garth, his engineer’s goggles slipping around on top of his head, one side of his white shirt untucked, and one sleeve rolled up to his elbow.

“Sirs, I must ask you not to enter the Engineer’s workshop, it’s incredibly unsafe for those not trained in the equipment,” he said earnestly, pulling his goggles off his head.

“It’s all right, Garth,” Dean said, pulling off his own goggles and getting to his feet, his calves aching from the crouched position he’d been holding for the past quarter of an hour. “The Captain can go where he pleases. So,” he inclined his head in Captain Michael’s direction. “To what do I owe the pleasure, Commander?”

“Engineering Cadet, leave us,” Michael said, jerking his head behind him. Dean glanced at Garth, who was looking at him expectantly.

“Garth, that would be you.”

“Oh!” Garth said, jumping slightly and rushing for the door. Michael remained silent until the heavy door had clicked shut.

“First Assistant, allow me to introduce you to Virgil, the crew’s machinist.”

Virgil extended a hand, looking at Dean through dark eyes, one real, and one clearly made of glass. “Dean Winchester. A pleasure.”

“It’s all mine,” Dean replied, shaking his hand.

“I understand that you’re in possession of a very magnificent object,” Virgil said, his deep voice echoing through the high-vaulted room. “One of your own pieces, I’ve been told. Brilliant work.”

“Ah,” Dean said, nodding. “The glove. I appreciate the sentiment, sir.”

“I’ve also been told that it’s a dangerous object.” Virgil continued, raising an eyebrow.

“Only to a degree,” Dean said defensively. “The glove can heat up when in use and cause some measure of burning to someone who touches the exterior, but it’s nothing that proper use can’t prevent.”

“Nevertheless, a dangerous object like that shouldn’t be left around in a workshop,” Michael interjected. “It’s our wish, therefore, that you allow us to take it to the armory.”

“But what use is it there?” Dean asked, aghast. “I can put it to work here! If you put it down there, it’ll do nothing but rust. Why do you think it should be taken?”

“As a precaution, Master Winchester, a precaution only,” Virgil replied, his tone icy.

“Captain,” Dean said, turning from the Machinist to face Michael. “You’ve never had an issue with my inventions being here before. Is there something you’re not telling me?”

Michael looked down at him, his expression cold, unfathomable, like the darkest pit of the ocean. “Not in the least, Master Winchester,” he said coolly. “If there was anything for you to be informed of, rest assured you would know about it.”

Dean nodded, turning from one blank face to another. That was the thing about authority. They all looked so similar. Like they’d all had the same father, just breeding them like rabbits.

“Fine,” Dean said, raising his hands in vague surrender. “Here it is.”

He walked over to his box of equipment and rattled around inside it for a moment, before pulling out the glove and tossing it to them. Michael shied away, but Virgil caught it deftly in one leather-gloved hand.

“Much appreciated, Master Winchester. She’s in good hands, rest assured.”

“I certainly hope so,” Dean replied, nodding and giving a sycophantic smile. “Captain, if there’s anything else I can do for you-?”

“Nothing at all. Only keep up the fine work, Winchester. Might I recommend a new invention within the next coming fortnight? Something new would so break up the tedium, wouldn’t you say?”

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it sharply and nodded. “Yes, Sir.”

Michael nodded, and he and Virgil swept away, reaching the door just as the Head Engineer walked through it.

“Can I help you, Captain?” Bobby asked, saluting as they passed.

“Only wanted to trouble your assistant, Master Singer. Carry on.”

“Yes, sir.”

Bobby waited until the door was completely closed before rounding on Dean. “What the hell did you do?”

“I didn’t do anything! They wanted the glove for the arsenal!” Dean hissed, waving a hand at the door.

“Why in God’s name would they need that if not to take your work away from you?” Bobby asked incredulously. “I’ve told you before, Dean, and I’ll keep telling it until you get it through your skull. These men want to drop you off the side of the ship, and the only thing that’s stopping them is that chunk of meat between your ears that they call a brain. If you don’t put it to good use, they’re going to take what they can get and scamper, and the only thing you’ll be worth is the rope it takes to hang you.”

“I _know!_ ” Dean shouted, his jaw twitching.

“Do you?” Bobby asked with mock incredulity. “How about you getting a bit too friendly with the passengers? Does that sound like someone using their brain?”

“I-I…what?”

“Sam told me about an incident with a certain…Anna Milton?”

Dean’s bottom lip shuddered. “It didn’t mean anything.”

“Look,” Bobby said, his tone softer. “I know you feel like you’ve got something to prove. You want to have something to show people that they’ve got no reason to find you guilty for what they’re after. But do you really think a jury is going to listen to reason in a case like that? They’ll want to feed your parts to wild dogs. A hanging is the kindest you can hope for, and nothin’ you say is going to convince them otherwise. I’m asking you, Dean, keep working. If the Captain wants something in a week, you get it for him.”

“You know I can’t make something in a week,” Dean shot back. “There isn’t enough time.”

“Well then, you’d better get to work,” Bobby replied, and slammed the workshop door on his way out.

Dean huffed, his fingers curling and uncurling into fists, his eyes twitching and flicking restlessly. He took up a long metal rod and looked about, his eyes finally settling on a dented propeller leaning against the wall. He brought the bar over his head and smashed it down onto the plate with a thunderous clang! He brought it up and down, again and again in time with his pulse, which beat faster and faster, flowing and thrumming in his ears like a war drum. He wanted to scream, to bash in the brains of someone nameless, the jury, his executioner, the stupid bugger who’d paid him…

“That doesn’t look like it’s fixing it.”

Dean stumbled at the sound of the voice, turning around to see Castiel standing in the middle of the workshop, looking incredibly out of place in his dark blue coat and pressed white shirt next to an empty welding canister in which Dean had once seen a rat give birth. He was like a white marble in mud.

“The workshop isn’t open for passengers.”

“Does that mean you’d like me to leave?”

“No.”

Dean dropped the bar to the floor with a crash, running a hand through his sweaty hair. “I feel as though I haven’t seen you in days, Castiel. How are you?”

“I’m…decent,” Castiel replied slowly. “It’s difficult for one’s mood to change while separated from the earth.”

Dean nodded, but didn’t reply, so Castiel continued. “Do you ever feel like, when you’re flying, like your emotions are…diluted, in a way? Like you can’t feel things as much as you can on the ground?”

Dean smirked, glancing at the floor. “No,” he replied. “It’s even worse up here. Nothing is tethered to the earth when you’re on a ship. Everything can fly.”

“But what if you think that something might make you unhappy, and then you end up not feeling anything? Wouldn’t that be unexpected?”

Dean looked up at Castiel, wringing his hands before him anxiously. “Call me mental, Castiel, but it seems to me that something’s happened. I assume you want to tell me, since you’re here.”

Castiel’s mouth opened and closed a few times, as though the words were too round for him to get proper traction on them. “Why are you so angry?” he asked finally.

Dean sighed, glancing back at the dented propeller. “I have to make something in a fortnight,” he said. “Something new, a new invention, like the glove. But I had a year to make that.”

“Can you not ask for more time?”

“Either they get it in a week or I’m off the ship. They’ve already confiscated the glove. It’s in the armory. They made the excuse that they think it’s dangerous,” Dean said roughly, stuffing his fists into his pockets.

Castiel’s brows furrowed, and he stared at Dean, aghast. “But…but surely they can’t do that!”

“Captain Michael can do whatever he damn well pleases,” Dean retorted, kicking at a loose nut on the floor. It rolled with a clink and a clatter into a table leg. He looked up to find Castiel watching him, his expression wary.

“Are you scared?” Castiel asked quietly.

Dean shrugged his shoulders. “I’ve made it this long. Kept it together for Sammy’s sake. And he’s fine now, he’s a grown man with his own rules on living, and I’ve…I’ve done the best I could.”

Castiel stared at him for a long moment, his eyes glowing like chips of ice.

“You’re crying.”

Dean pulled one of his hands from his pocket and swiped it across his cheek. The back of his hand came back wet.

“It’s all right,” Castiel said earnestly, stepping closer. “I know what that’s like, I do. Sometimes it happens, and you don’t realize it until it’s already over, and your eyes and nose are irritated and you can’t fathom why. It’s only ‘cos you’re thinking so much about it. Don’t think. Or at least, don’t think about it so much. Just try and move on from it, and it won’t be able to follow you.”

“How much can I move forward when I’m on a ship?” Dean asked, his voice harsher than he had wanted. “The only way forward from here is to the ground.”

Castiel’s eyes flicked to the floor, as though Dean’s words had hit him over the head. He blinked slowly, then looked back up at the engineer, the wringing of his hands slowing. Suddenly, he strode forward and wrapped his arms around Dean’s neck, pulling him into a tight embrace. Dean blinked rapidly against the blue velvet pushing into the tip of his nose, every joint in his body feeling awkward and stiff. It had been quite some time since anything like this had happened to him. Come to think of it, had something like this ever really happened to him? But it was warm, and comfortable, like wearing a coat that could breathe. A coat which could feel.

Dean wrapped his arms around Castiel’s waist, pulling him closer. He could feel Castiel bury his face into the crook of Dean’s neck, his breath heating his collarbone like a tiny furnace, like he was trying to use Dean’s bones to kindle a fire. Castiel was only the slightest bit shorter than Dean, but still he couldn’t help but think that the difference was too great. It would be better if they were both sitting, perhaps, his and Castiel’s legs tangled up in the sort of way that one couldn’t tell where one appendage ended and one began, like an infinite mass of human that only wanted to be closer together, so close they might swallow each other up and blink with each other’s eyes.

What was that strange buzzing? No, not buzzing. More like ringing, a sort of fuzzy ringing that seemed to spread from the very center of his stomach and stumble its way through every pore of his skin, filling him with a sort of infinite warmth. He knew that feeling. He knew what it felt like, for he had played it over and over, again and again in his head like a sort of dreary metronome, and how could it be back? And why did it feel so much more powerful, so strong, and so very, very dangerous?

For his lack of experience in the area, he was quite certain that typical embraces didn’t feel like this.

There was a bang as the workshop door burst open, and Castiel leapt like a startled dog, scrabbling for purchase on Dean’s shirt as Jo walked through the door, carrying a basket full of sopping wet towels. She stared at them when she noticed them standing there, Castiel still clinging to Dean’s shirt, and Dean standing stock-still, staring at her like a deer a minute from death. She walked over to one of the worktables, setting down the basket with a thump, her eyes never leaving the two of them. Finally, she reached over and slapped a box from the edge of the table, scattering screws all over the floor.

“Goddamnit, Jo!” Dean cried, rushing forward and beginning to gather them up.

“Oh dear, it appears that Master Winchester has work to get done. Sir, if I could please ask you to return to your cabin-”

“It’s all right, I can help,” Castiel said, getting to his knees and gathering up the screws.

“Ah,” Jo said, raising her eyebrows. “Well. If you insist. I’ll be on the third floor, Dean, if anything crops up.” She pulled a wrench from the work table and, with one last significant look at Dean, exited the room.

“Dean, I have a question,” Castiel said, his eyes concentrated on the task at hand.

“Yes?”

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?”

“Have sex with that man?”

Dean looked up, staring wide-eyed at Castiel. Castiel glanced up, his cupped hands full of screws. “Why the hell do you ask that?” he spluttered.

“Because I’m curious,” Castiel said defiantly. “Will you tell me?”

Dean sat back on his heels in a huff. “Because I was in love,” he said, his voice daring Castiel to speak a retort. However, Castiel was silent, so Dean spluttered and continued. “If you must know. Or, at least, I thought I was. Now that I think on it, I don’t think it was anything of the sort. He was a soldier, he told me he was to be deployed the next day…I didn’t even know his name.” Dean said, the corners of his mouth tensing. He let out a humorless laugh. “But that’s why you do when you’re in love, isn’t it? Put your neck in the rope and hope they don’t let you go.”

Castiel nodded slowly. He took his time putting the screws back in the box and turning back to the engineer. “I understand that,” he replied quietly. “It’s happened to me as well. To all of us, I imagine. I doubt there is a soul alive who hasn’t felt that. And that just makes the idea of you hanging for it even more ludicrous.”

Dean kept his eyes on the floor, focused on the screws, not saying a word.

“You were meant to be this way,” Castiel continued, reaching forward and squeezing the screws out of Dean’s hand, letting them fall through his fingers back into the box. “Perhaps you’ve heard that sentiment before, but only because it’s true. God made us outcasts, but we don’t deserve to be cast out. Does that make any sense?”

Dean nodded silently.

“I think perhaps the world would be better without me,” Castiel said, picking up the few individual screws left on the hard floor. “But I think, if that were true, then the effort wouldn’t have been put into me arriving here in the first place. If you help me, then I’ll help you. But that can only happen if we are honest, correct?”  
Dean nodded in agreement.

“I’ll talk to the Captain for you,” Castiel replied. “I have some modicum of standing in the community. And I know others who can put in a good word. You’ll be staying on this ship until the last sunset on earth. And in return, you can find out everything the ship’s got about a passenger named Meg Masters.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It's 2 am. It's incredibly late by my standards. Leave a comment with any opinions or questions, and I hope you guys like! It's a bit rambling, so I'll see if I can clean it up when I'm a bit less sleepy.


	9. He Will Powder His Gums

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Jo is keen to have her say on the matter.

“Personally, I think it’s incredibly unfair of you.”

“Not this again.” Dean groaned, pulling the pipe from his lips. After three days since seeing Castiel in the workshop, Jo had become more vocal about her displeasure, bordering on whining, and it was not a habit that Dean was keen to get used to. However, it had indeed been he who had come to ask for help. In that case, sacrifices had to be made.

Not that there was much to address, apart from that nagging, moldy part of his brain. He and Castiel had entered a sort of dull litany, monotonous and seemingly eternal. Dean ate with him in the dining hall, walked with him through the halls, and took his hand when it began that peculiar twitch. Castiel said that the warmth helped still it. Dean had never heard that before, but he saw no reason to upset the system. They had been working on a new project, Castiel keeping good to his word and promising that he was keeping close tabs on the captain and high-ranking crew. Castiel was fair enough with tools, doing whatever was asked of him, and the other engineers had learned to take no notice of him, Garth nearly removing him unceremoniously from the room the first day. But there was still that nagging, itching inch of brain matter, prying and hissing, the part that thought of sweat and heat and hidden skin with an obsession that rivaled the most fervent addict, and the fact that it was the concentrated lust of only one person made it all the more startling in its enthusiasm.

“If it had been me, you wouldn’t have been all right with the idea of me of even being seen with a man I wasn’t married to. But with your new _friend_ , it’s as though it’s no problem at all,” Jo said, folding her arms and leaning against the railing. “Quite an eccentric, is he, this angel?”

“Enough of that talk,” Dean replied. “You may not be a proper lady, but at least talk like someone marginally respectable.”

“I didn’t take you to be so concerned with appearances, Master Winchester,” Jo said mockingly. “I wonder what it could be that’s brought this on?”

“Nothing’s brought it on,” Dean said stonily, his gaze fixed firmly out over the sky. The sun was setting, its glow fierce and unwavering against the blanket of clouds beneath them, the sky darkening to a dusky, stale twilight. It definitely hadn’t been wise to choose to discuss these things with her.

“Oh, is that so?” Jo asked, leaning up from the railing, her arms still folded. She walked around behind Dean, reaching out and picking at the hem of his jacket. “You got all the holes patched up. Did you have Jody do it for you? And look at this, no grease under the fingernails, no dirt or nothing anywhere. Why,” she caught his lapels and pulled him close, grinning. “You could pass for a regular dandy, Winchester.”

Dean pulled away, frowning.

“Which makes me wonder,” she continued, her smile faltering, “who’s got the honor of seeing you so pretty? Can’t be me. Wouldn’t be your brother. I would have thought it was that one ginger girl you were sweet on the first day aboard, but I haven’t seen you around her since. And there seems to be only one person who’s caught your eye.”

Dean turned to face her. “Say a word, Jo, let one word come out of your mouth-”

“What, you think I care?” Jo asked, genuinely shocked as she put a hand to her chest. “Don’t be an imbecile. I grew up in the progressive families, I don’t give a toss about anyone’s personal lives. I want to know how it’s going to affect your work, Winchester. You know that the captain’s not going to like you slacking.”

“ _Jo,_ ” Dean hissed, glancing around. But there wasn’t a soul on deck to hear them. The passengers were all eating supper, and the wind whistled over the bare floorboards. 

Nevertheless, he proceeded with caution. “It’s not. You know what would happen to me if they let me go from the ship. The ground police would snatch me up like a fly.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Jo replied, waving a hand, a steely glint in her eye. “Unlikely you’d even make it to the ground. They’d let you go all right, right off the side of the ship. Enough of that!” she barked when Dean stepped toward her sternly. “You’re the one in trouble, let me have my fun. Understand, you’ve got sky law on your side, which means as long as you’re above the clouds, nearly anything’s fair game. But if you don’t keep everyone happy, euphoria isn’t going to be your candy. So, let me give you the best advice I’ve got. Keep your work up double, triple, enlist Garth to help you, and if you are going to make a move with the angel, do it now while the law can’t catch you.”

Dean spluttered indignantly. “I shouldn’t have told you anything,” he muttered.

“No, you shouldn’t have,” Jo agreed. “You should have told your brother. Why aren’t you two talking, Dean? Surely it’s not a falling out. Not after all this time.”

Dean sighed, looking at her. She stared at him, her dark eyes expectant. She always did want an answer right away. “How do you know whether or not we’re talking, Jo?”

Her response was immediate. “Because I’ve worked with you for years, Dean. You wouldn’t be coming to me for help unless you had no other choice.”

“I can’t talk to Sammy about this. Not only that, but he wouldn’t want to hear it. It’s a problem that only I can fix.”

“You being in love isn’t a problem,” Jo replied, her eyes crinkling.

“It is when it could cost me my _life!_ ” Dean shouted, kicking at the railing. His steel-toed boot splintered it, little slivers exploding from the concave wood.

“Not up here it can’t,” Jo said quietly. “You didn’t seem to worry about that the last time, when you were on the ground, and a country had legal claim on you. Why are you so concerned now? Because he’s more than just a shadow? Because you know that you’re going to remember his name?”

Dean opened his mouth, then closed it and nodded stiffly. Jo raised her eyebrows in acknowledgement.

“I’m telling you, you don’t want to live with regret. It’ll eat you up inside. Just do something about it, before we land and he leaves you. Deny what you like, but I saw you two in the workshop. You can’t keep living like this, denying yourself what you need because you don’t think you deserve it. Maybe you don’t deserve him, but if he’s as brave and noble as you make him sound, then he deserves you. Are you really going to deny the requests of a soldier?”

Dean couldn’t help but smirk. She always had the cleverest things to say, and then would stand their proudly as though basking in what she had said. Like the echoes of her words glowed like the sun. But it was true. He hadn’t been talking to Sam. Mainly because Sam wasn’t talking much to him. Dean knew that his mouth was dusty, and that he still had a steady supply of the stuff. He kept it politely hidden away from Dean, but he could sense it on his little brother like a dog with an unfamiliar smell, could sense the fog closing around his brother’s body. He was on a moor, being pulled back into the mist by the beckoning will-o-the-wisps, and it was all Dean could do to watch his head drift into a dark, hazy corner. But trying to speak to him about it would only make things worse. Silence was the most effective means of speaking, and didn’t turn to gibberish through the addled brains. There was nothing he could do to control his brother. But there was something he could do for himself.

Dean spoke not another word, only turned on his heel and marched off through the deck. Castiel never took meals in the dining hall unless Dean was there, for reasons that Dean had yet to figure out. He had tried to get more information regarding Castiel’s past from the man, but he became extremely tight-lipped when prompted to speak of it.  
Dean turned a corner, following the narrow steps, down, down, down into the belly of the ship. He marched until he came upon the door he sought, and rapped sharply on it.  
Castiel pulled open the door, his suitcoat unbuttoned slightly, his shirt collar rumpled. Judging by his disheveled state, and the way he was rubbing his eyes, it seemed as though he’d come out of a doze.

“Dean? What are-”

But Dean had already pushed his way into the room, his hands gripping Castiel’s wrists.

It wasn’t what he had expected, based on his last experience. Castiel’s lips were viciously chapped from the wind, small and opened slightly in surprise. Nevertheless, it felt like a surge of energy, hot comforting and frightening all at once, like a mighty leap from a crackling fire.

“Dean-” Cas mumbled against his lips. Dean didn’t reply, only pulled Cas closer, sinking into the warmth and the comfort and the fury…

“Dean, that’s enough.”

“I can’t-”

“ _Stop!_ ”

Cas wrenched his lips from Dean’s, his skin splotchy and his eyes wide and bright as planets. He held Dean’s shoulders vice-like, his breath coming in short, labored gasps.  
“I don’t…what’s wrong?” Dean asked, looking Castiel up and down. “What on earth is the matter with you?”

Dean leaned back, startled. This was hardly the reaction he had expected. It was a chaste kiss, really, rather like one he would expect a child to bestow on a grandparent. And yet Castiel was looking at him as though he'd insulted his lineage all the way back to Eve. Unwarranted, he thought, seeing as they'd done much of the same before.

“I should think I ought to ask you the same question!” Castiel replied indignantly. “Forcing your way into a man’s quarters like that and taking advantage of his…it’s not decent.”  
“You’re talking like a woman,” Dean replied, the sticky black tar of nervousness beginning to slide down the lining of his stomach.

“Nevertheless,” Castiel said, pulling a handkerchief from his pocket and swiping hurriedly at his face. “Barging about…all that nonsense…hardly a respectable thing to do.”

“Castiel, pardon me for saying so, but I don’t give a damn about respectability anymore, and I haven’t for a long time,” Dean replied sharply. He could feel the beginning of the creeping red shame spread over his face. “However, I apologize for startling you.”

“It’s all right,” Castiel nodded quickly. “It’s only people grabbing my wrists like that…bad business, a very bad business.”

Dean bit his lip, finally giving an incline of the head. “My pardons, Master Novak.”

“Stop being ridiculous,” the angel replied scathingly. “You run remarkably hot and cold, Winchester. I don’t quite know what to make of it just yet.”

“Well,” Dean said, sidling closer to him. “There’s always the eternal matter of the prototype.”

“Yes, the prototype that will be my downfall,” Castiel replied, nodding gravely, but with a contradictory twinkle in his blue eyes. “I’ll meet you down in the workshop momentarily. And we only have four days left, Dean. We must be focused.”

“Four days? A lifetime…” he replied.

“ _Focused,_ ” Castiel repeated, shoving Dean through the ajar door before closing it tightly behind him. Dean stared at the wood grain before him, then sighed. It hadn’t been the first, but it had certainly been the most sudden. The workshop was a safe haven, full of secluded spots, where the telltale squeak of the metal door announced arrivals. Cabins were risky business, full of whispering neighbors and doors that were far too quiet…

But Castiel was right. They did have work to do. And Dean would have to learn to keep himself to himself. Perhaps he would ask Castiel to place a flour sack over his head, anything to obscure those piercing eyes, the tongue perpetually poking out from between those lips…

A young man watched as the engineer strode away from the cabin. He stepped out from behind the bend in the hallway, adjusting the papers under his arm. His eyes narrowed down the hallway, and he set off at a brisk trot in the other direction, his steps clipped and determined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> First off, I'm so sorry I haven't updated recently! Things have been a bit crazy out here in the real world, but I'm back! And I won't let it go as long without a new update. This one might be getting so major cosmetic changes in the near future, I'm not sure I'm particularly happy with how it came out. If you have any suggestions, leave them in the comments! Thanks for reading!


	10. Smile at the Old Days

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Memories are like plagues, rotting and cancerous and painful.
> 
> Chapter Song Title- Memory, CATS

It was only one small, little thing.

But, coupled together, they made one very large, very enormous thing. Because there were many of them, oh yes, many little things balling together like bread dough crumbs separated from the mound. Just waiting to glom back together.

Castiel liked to think that he wasn’t much of a worrier. This, of course, was a complete lie, but he was in fact such a worrier that he refused to let himself worry about worrying too much. Just another one of the tangled circles that his mind weaved to confuse him.

And there were so, so many things to be confused by. He wasn’t anything, a low-class rapscallion, a pipe-smoking greaser. Castiel thought that perhaps spending more time with Dean building the prototype would stop these feelings from overtaking his soul and taking great, gnawing bits out of his heart. He was, unfortunately, incorrect. Dean Winchester was a man of extraordinary intelligence and wit, his green eyes alight like live sparkplugs as he assembled the contraption, Castiel helping in only the barest of fashions. It was an extraordinary thing, an automaton that would clean airship propellers automatically. No more wasted time for sooties at stopping points to get onto ladders and clean the enormous bronze blades, no more freak accidents when the things suddenly started spinning…it was a revolutionary device, and Castiel not only was able to see the creation of it, but watch Dean become more alive as the machine did. He seemed to be most comfortable in the engineering room, surrounded by puzzle-like bits and bobs of the ship. Like some giant maze through which he knew every corner. Like a child on Christmas day. And his smile, the type of smile that one would expect to glitter like the most precious of jewels. The way his hands worked so diligently, finding the tiniest and most perfect of screws, to heaving great planks and panels of tin and bronze and gold. The way he talked so cheerfully about everything, about how he built a pet brass octopus when he was a little boy for his brother Sam, about the food, the staff, the weather, and yet still his eyes seemed so big and sad. But Castiel felt tied to him with a thousand strings, and it was a feeling that made him want to laugh and cry and smile and scream all at once. And all those little things were what so confused him.

That wasn’t even counting the actual acts that had transpired between them. It really was nothing, small things put together. Glances, the most miniscule of all possible kisses…sky law had no restrictions on anything of the kind, but there were people in the sky, and people obeyed their own sets of laws. Castiel had felt for the past three days that he carried some sort of mark on his back, bigger than the one had had grown used to, a sign pinned to his jacket that read ‘I have fallen in love with a man, and I don’t even have the gall to be ashamed of it.’

Was it love? Every time he got too close to Dean, their skin working up a static charge, he felt as though they were both waiting, both biding their time. But there was something smoldering, moving inside him every time he looked at Dean. It was as though Dean was a tunnel through which the brightest possible pinpoint of light peeked. Dean was the future, come to drag him out of his past. He imagined Dean coming to live on the plantation, fixing the farm equipment, walking back into the house after spending all day out in the sun, and he would be all Castiel’s, all his forever. Dean knew and felt this same thing, he was sure. The two of them looked at the other like they were a sumptuous tart that could only be eaten on a special occasion. But the time was not there to bide. The ship sunk ever lower to the ground, and back to national law. Their only excuse, then, was that they were scared. 

Fright did always seem to be Castiel’s problem.

There was a clearing in the tall, waving golden wheat. The others stood there nervously, hands wringing behind back and toes tapping the hard-packed dirt anxiously.

There was a grenade in Castiel’s hand. It stood out, black as coal against the golden grain and bright blue sky. He still could remember the joy, the sheer, utter naïveté and pride he felt as he held that insignificant object. It was a mark of the war, a mark that he would be able to make a difference in that war-torn Heaven. It was so new, so untouched, that it reflected the gold buttons on the sleeve of his dark blue uniform. He reeled back his hand, and he let the object fly.

But it didn’t fly as his expected, straight as a pin to arc over the bright sky and land a safe distance in the already-burnt wheat. The very edge of it caught his fingernail, sending it spinning to the left. It all happened so slowly in Castiel’s mind, as though he should be able to simply reach out and snatch it from the air like a falling acorn.

It landed between two other cadets, a beautiful woman with long blonde hair and a skinny boy, happy and insignificant and untroubled…

It fell with a finality on the ground. Castiel never remembered this part as it most likely happened, no sound and no sight but for a bright white light.

Except then there was blood on the ground, washing over the trampled wheat. There was a limb some distance away, a mangled shell of a leg, and it looked so peculiar separated from a body that it was nearly comical.

Then there was the screaming, a multitude of it, and someone was grabbing Castiel’s wrists, clamped as tightly as iron, burning, burning so badly he thought he should scream, but no words could come out. Rachel was crying, sobbing, screaming and pounding the dirt with her fist. There was no one around her, although in real life Castiel was sure she’s been surrounded by concerned cadets.

_“You stupid bastard, Castiel! You infinitely stupid, loathsome bastard!”_

“I’m sorry,” Castiel cried, the pain in his wrists insurmountable, his stomach twisting. _“I’m sorry Rachel, I’m sorry, please stop shouting, you’re hurting me…”_

“Castiel?”

 _“Dean,”_ Castiel choked, and it was not a question, for he would recognize that voice anywhere. It was voice that should not be here.

“Castiel, I’m going to help you,” Dean said, nodding fervently. Castiel looked down to see that Dean was the one clutching his wrists so tightly, his fingertips bright red, as though burning.

 _“Dean, please, you’re hurting me, let go, let go, I don’t want you to die,”_ Castiel gasped, the tears on his cheeks smoldering like molten iron. His eyes flicked to his left, and he saw the motion repeat itself, like a needle on a phonograph stuck on one note on a record. Rachel pulling a dagger from her waist, her face animalistic, inhuman, her nose and mouth nearly forming together to form a great, jagged muzzle, bloodied teeth jutting from her jaw like ragged yellow spikes.

Castiel screamed, a long, drawn-out thing that rang like church bells, and still Dean smiled at him, unaware, oblivious.

 _“I killed him!”_ Castiel cried, gesturing wildly over Dean’s shoulder. Normally, by this time he would have run to the mangled torso of the boy, the rest of his limbs blown somewhere into the field, watched as the blood ran out of his face as quickly as a photograph curls up in the fire, feeling the bloody spittle hit his cheek as the boy’s final act was to spit in his face, and watch as his body went limp as an old rag in his hands, the boy’s eyes staring up at nothing, nothing to the ends of the universe. _“Don’t you see what I did? I killed him? How can you love someone with so much blood on their hands?”_

Castiel ripped his wrists from Dean’s grasp and pushed him away by the shoulders. Dean screamed. Castiel narrowed his eyes and looked down at his hands. The great metal glove, Dean’s invention, was on his left hand. Castiel recalled vaguely, something about it burning. Burning human skin, hot as heavenly fire. How could it have gotten there?  
Dean pulled up his sleeve, and Castiel saw a great red handprint spreading over the muscle, throbbing and swelling like a bee sting until it popped with a shower of blood, and Dean fell to his knees, howling in a way that was never meant to come out of a human’s mouth, screaming and shouting and crying, the tears falling from his green eyes like rain.

Castiel woke with a tremendous start, holding the blankets across his bare chest as he stared at the ceiling of his cabin. He willed his breathing to subside, his hands to stop shaking and twitching on the blanket before him. It was a dream. Only a dream, the same dream he’d had ever since it had happened, except there was one thing, one thing that was different, that should not have been there. One more little thing.

“Dean.”

***

On the bottom floor of the ship, the engineering room down sprang open. Dean leaned up, wiping his hands on a rag, watching as the three captains of the ship strode in, followed by a mousy boy possessing a multitude of folded papers and a sour expression.

“Gentlemen,” Dean said, pulling the goggles from his eyes. “What can I do you for? Bit late, isn’t it, Captain?”

Captain Michael straightened his shoulders.

“Master Winchester, your employment has been terminated effective immediately. Please, hand over that prototype."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, so I might have taken a little break from this work...but rest assured, I haven't abandoned it! I'll probably be writing quite a bit in the next few days as I have a break from work, and while I'll be busy I'll do all I can to keep this thing regularly updated. I'll probably delve a tiny bit more into Castiel's war past at some point with more conclusive visuals, but at this point nightmares are the only thing he's got. Luckily enough, he happens to share that same plague with his lover. They do have a lot in common, don't they? Please leave a comment if you enjoyed or have any constructive criticism!


	11. In the Evil's Heart

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Everything must come to light in due course.
> 
> Chapter Song Title: Seven Devils, Florence+The Machine

Dean shook his head, a small smile curling his lips. “With all due respect, sir, you can’t be serious.”

The scrawny boy leaned around to poke his head around the three captains. “He’s always serious,” he piped up. Captain Gabriel pushed him back by the head.

“Why,” Dean said quietly, stepping slowly towards the captains, “would you want to confiscate the prototype? You do know why it’s called a prototype, don’t you? That means that it’s not completed. Which means that you can’t make any money off of it. And not only that, but none of you have even the slightest notion of how to operate it.” Captain Michael’s chest expanded as he inhaled sharply. “And so,” Dean continued, “I can only guess that whatever I’m being sacked for is something so terrible that all the money in the world can’t make up for it.”

He raised his hands to the ceiling, smiling incredulously. “Would any of you gentlemen like to tell me what I did?” he shouted, his voice echoing through the chambered ceiling of the workshop.

The door smashed open, sounding as though it had ripped clean off its hinges. A man stood there, shirtless and panting, his dark hair falling over his forehead and his ice blue eyes burning.

“That,” Captain Gabriel said, pointing lazily at Castiel in the doorway. “ _That_ is what you did.”

“I beg your pardon?” Dean asked, aghast. Castiel stared from the captains to Dean, his hands sliding from the door, his eyes wide, mouth open.

“We received an anonymous tip that you have broken Earth law,” Captain Raphael said, his voice echoing with a terrible finality. “It is a law that we cannot overlook, and it is due to it that we must force your resignation.”

“That can’t be right,” Castiel said, striding from the doorway to stand beside Dean. “I know this man, captains. He is honorable, and I would sooner jump from the ship’s railing then believe him capable of any atrocity worthy of firing.”

Gabriel snorted derisively. “Your praise of him only increases his guilt, Master Castiel, and yours as well. Don’t you understand? Buggery will get you a hanging in Earth. We’re doing him a favour.”

Dean nodded slowly, his eyes fixed on the floor. “I see,” he replied after a moment, his voice low and soft as a growl. “An anonymous tip? An anonymous tip who comes to see his rat get caught?”

“What are you-” Raphael began, but Dean strode past him, knocking him out of the way and grabbing the small boy from behind the captains by the collar. 

“It that what they’re calling little rats like these now, _anonymous_?” Dean shouted, shaking him roughly. “I’ve seen this shit wandering around the corridors at all hours, poking his nose into places he shouldn’t and trying to catch people out to drag is carcass higher up on the ladder. Trying to get me hung for something that isn’t even illegal in the sky? Disgusting!” Dean pushed Samandriel up against the wall of the workshop. “How dare you try and convict me! You can’t hope to know the first thing about what I do!”

“Winchester!” Michael barked. “Release Samandriel immediately!”

“Samandriel,” Dean said scathingly, his fingers tightening around the boys’ neck. “One of the old angelic names. Angel scum, the lot of you! Revolting, underhanded bits of filth!” he raised his hand and slapped Samandriel, who cried out, tears slipping down his red cheeks.

“You think I’ve grown naïve?” Dean roared, pushing him roughly into the wall. “You think I don’t remember what you angels are? You’re nothing! Why didn’t you all just kill yourselves in that damn war?”

“ _Dean!_ ” Castiel cried.

Raphael reached forward and pulled Dean away from Samandriel, shoving him back, where he stumbled and fell against a large copper plate with a bang.

“Master Winchester, either you vacate the vicinity willingly, or we’ll have to force you, and I can assure you that neither party wishes it to come to that,” Michael said, stepping towards where Dean lay on the ground, his arm draped over the overturned copper plate. Dean spat in response.

“Grab him,” Michael said, stepping back. Gabriel and Raphael walked forward, yanking him up by the elbows. Dean glared up at Michael, his mouth twisted with rage.

“Dean Winchester, you are officially accused of buggery and sentenced to confinement in the brig until landing. The same goes for Master Castiel.”

“What?” Castiel asked, backing away. “How dare you! I’m a passenger on this flight. I’ve caused no harm!”

“You have broken the law,” Michael said as Samandriel grabbed Castiel’s arm, his wiry strength preventing his exit. “That is reason enough.”

“And what about my brother?” Dean asked. “Are you going to sack Sam too?”

“Your brother is sentenced to confinement to quarters until landing.”

Dean laughed, a high, broken thing that sounded like a rock going through glass. “My brother’s been confined to his quarters for weeks! He only ever comes out anymore to eat and vomit over the side of the ship; he’s smoking the rest of the time. I hope you enjoy not having a head engineer, because Sammy’s not striking to be any modicum of help! And you can forget about getting any money off of that prototype. If I had my way, I’d chuck it right off the side of the ship!”

“Take them both to the brig,” Michael said, turning away.

Gabriel and Raphael turned, pulling Dean towards the doors. Castiel followed them closely. As they passed, Dean leaned over and hissed at Samandriel.

“Sleep with one eye open for the rest of your life. I’ll be back. And then you’ll be dead.”

Samandriel watched as the two of them were led away. “I thought I was doing the right thing!” he cried just as the workshop doors slammed shut, leaving him alone with Captain Michael.

“I…I did do the right thing, right Captain?” he asked quietly, one hand wringing the hem of his waistcoat.

Captain Michael didn’t reply. His eyes were fixed on the welded lump of copper in the center of the room, the skeleton of what might have hoped to be the prototype.

***

“I’ll admit,” Dean drawled, his voice echoing through the dark stairway, “It’s not as pretty as I would have pictured.”

Castiel huffed, glaring at his shadowy form through the darkness. “You are a disgrace amongst men,” he hissed. Dean turned to stare at him.

“Why? Because of what would get me hung? I thought we’d reached some sort of understanding.”

“ _I_ thought that you weren’t prejudiced against angels anymore.”

Dean fell silent.

“In,” Raphael commended when they reached a thick wooden door. Dean clicked his tongue disapprovingly.

“Now, if you’d just have let someone down here with some aesthetic taste, they could have this all fixed right up. Chandeliers, a bronze fresco, automated doors…”

His words were cut off as the two of them were pushed roughly into the dark room, the door slammed shut behind them, leaving only a small open grid in the center of the door. Captain Gabriel peered through.

“Personally, I’m all for buggery. The fact that my brothers are projecting their own insecurities and improper frustrations on you both is quite unfortunate, and I’m-”

Dean wheeled about and punched the wood surrounding the little window, and Gabriel shut the hatch, leaving them both in complete darkness.

The first to speak was Castiel, who let out a furious groan, his hands curling so tightly into fists that he thought he was able to feel the blood drip from his fingernails. “You idiot bastard!” he screamed, striding about the room, partially to relieve his anger and half hoping that he would run into Dean and could give him a good hit. “You absolute fool! What on earth is that matter with you?”

“What’s the matter with _me_? What sort of fucking bloody idiot runs into my workshop at half past the crack of Hell in nothing but trousers?” Dean shouted back, his voice cracking along the stone. “If anything, I should ask what the absolute hell happened to you to make you so delusional?”

“ _I’m_ delusional?”

“You must have known that this couldn’t last! Anyone should have been smart enough to see that it was all going to go to shit sooner or later, and you had to go and cock it up for yourself! I thought you knew that! I knew well enough that I was going to get dumped, and all I wanted was for you to not go down with me! I’m not worth that, Castiel!”

There was a ringing, echoing silence in the cold room. Castiel shook, feeling the hairs on his bare skin rise to attention.

“I ran down there because of a nightmare,” he muttered. “But that’s not the point. I could tell that they were going to hurt you, and I just, I had to do something about it.”

“You did a damn stupid thing is what you did.”

“Well, that’s exactly what angels do, don’t they? Stupid things.”

Castiel could hear Dean sigh. “Please, Castiel, I didn’t…I didn’t mean-”

“When I was a cadet in the Heaven army,” Castiel said, drowning Dean’s words, “I misfired a grenade during training, where it landed between two angels and detonated. One of them was Rachel. One of them had a name that I never learned. I had to hold that boy in my arms as he died, felt as the last thing he did was spit in my face. I had to watch as they carried Rachel away, while they left me to pick up the body parts that were still lying in the field.” 

Castiel gulped, but it appeared that his throat had stopped working properly. “I was raised in a good family. We were so happy. My brothers and I would run out into the field and chase the insects. We would tear the wings off dragonflies and burn ants with glass. And that’s what it was. My grenade was nothing but a piece of glass. And the rest of us are just ants. And so, yes, angels do stupid things. And we should have wiped each other out. It would have been better that way. And you wouldn't know. You've never been in war.”

Dean huffed, his feet shuffling on the stone floor of the brig. “A good home life? My brother and I lived in the Hell slums. My father was investigating a demon who’d set fire to our house when we were little, killing our mother and driving father insane. He would leave us in the attic for days, without food…do you know what it’s like, with all your ‘good family,’ having to scrounge for food just to feed your brother? And in the end, all he does with his life is turn into a junkie? I mean, hell, I could have just saved all of it for myself if this was what I thought would come of it all!”

“You know,” Castiel cried over Dean’s shouting. “It doesn’t even matter anymore! Because now we’re imprisoned for something that I’ve _never_ regretted more! Aren’t we both just so glad to know that all that was for nothing? Everything would have been better if I'd never met you!”

There was a silence in the room, the sort of deafening silence that was thick enough to be eaten right out of the air.

“It…it wasn’t worth it?” Dean asked. Castiel shook his head. Dean couldn’t possibly be feeling sad now. Anytime but right now. “I don’t regret it.”

“Well, you also have had sex with a man. There’s a difference.”

“Castiel, you don’t understand,” Dean said, how voice sounding louder. Or was it closer? 

“You don’t understand what it’s like to be someone else looking at you. You’re like a work of art. Like stained glass in a church. Don’t you see what you are? You’re _holy_. And that’s just it. When I look at you, I feel like…like a sinner. Like I’m lower than you. And that’s how it is with all angels. But with you, I’m not upset about that feeling. Not even one little bit. All those others are the preachers that tell you to get yourself under control, or else the only thing you’re fit for is Hell itself. But you say that it’s all right, sinning is human, it’s not bad, and there will be forgiveness. You've sinned, and you've been forgiven. You don't hold yourself above what you've done. But you need to learn that you can live beyond it. Towards a future that you could love.”

Dean’s voice was definitely closer, and there was a gentleness, a softness in it that Castiel had never heard before. “Castiel,” Dean said. “When I’m with you, and I look at you…I feel like the lowest sinner in the world. And all I want to do is sin more. Because if that’s what I have to do to keep you looking at me, then I’ll do anything for you. I see you, and I see a future. With the two of us. Have you ever noticed how amazing happiness is? Like you're holding a zeppelin inside your stomach that'll expand at a moment's notice. And I haven't felt it, not once, since before I met you. I can't give that up, Castiel. Don't make me. I’ll do whatever you ask. I’m yours, Castiel. Whether you want me or not. I just want you to be as free as you make me feel.” 

Castiel couldn't see him, but he could feel Dean coming closer. "What do you want me to do, Castiel? Cry? Beg? I'll do it, I promise."

“I’m an _angel_ ,” Castiel spat. But there was no real venom in his voice. “You must be crazy if you think I’m any different from the others.”

“Castiel,” Dean whispered, and Castiel felt a hand grab his wrist, and all of a sudden Dean was everywhere, his hand on the skin of Castiel’s back, lips at his neck, another hand nestled in his hair. “You’re the one to drive me crazy. And if I make an exception, there’s only one person who can be blamed.”

“Y-You’re arousal shouldn’t be what defines this relationship,” Castiel retorted, but his head was full of nothing but the hazy fog of Dean’s breath, and it was getting harder to string words together, like they were beads with holes the tiniest bit too small for the needle…

“But it does help, doesn’t it?” Dean replied. He moved against Castiel, and Castiel bit his lip hard enough to draw blood, desperate not to cry out, not to make a sound and give Dean that satisfaction.

There was a shuffle in the corner. Castiel and Dean stopped moving, their breaths shaky as their eyes tried in vain to pierce the darkness.

“There are more?” called a deep voice. “Excellent. Welcome, whoever you are. I hope you find this comfortable, our own little corner of Hell.”

“Wait,” Dean hissed, stepping away from Castiel, but keeping one hand planted firmly in his. “I know that voice. I’ve heard it…no. You’re supposed to be on land, aren’t you, Captain Lucifer?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know, I know, it's been for freaking EVER that I've last written, and I'm sorrrrrry! I've been super busy with my own novel as well as work, but Christmas break is promising to be a very fruitful time! I can't wait to get back into the rhythm with this story, and perhaps even finish it towards New Year. Thanks so much for reading!!


	12. There's So Much Fear

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A stay in the brig is cut short by several unwelcome faces.
> 
> Chapter Song Title-For the First Time in Forever, Disney's Frozen Original Soundtrack

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Despite my best intentions, my supposed break hasn't been as relaxing as I'd hoped. I've actually started and stopped this chapter several times, as I always have difficulties once I get into a story's home stretch. Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy!

“I’m sorry, who?” Castiel asked, his eyes struggling to pierce the impenetrable darkness. “Who is that?”

“You were the one who signed the papers for me and my brother to come aboard,” Dean said, his voice accusatory. “Why are you here?”

“Master Winchester?” the voice called. “Yes, you must be the older one. The younger seemed to too out of his skull to be of any trouble to my brothers. Of course it was them who put you in here. Yet another thing we seem to have in common.”

“And the other thing would be?”

“Sin,” the voice hissed. Castiel’s breath caught in his throat. “There seems to be so much of it around these parts. I think it’s the thin air, personally. Makes everyone a bit…wild.”

“And what would a captain do that would cause his brothers to lock him up?” Dean asked. “It must have been bad. Nepotism’s a bitch.”

“I didn’t do anything,” Lucifer snarled. “I knew that the ship was going under new management, and I wasn’t having it. Have you seen what the frigates these days look like, all covered in new-fangled bronze and automatons? They’re a disgrace to skyfaring, and Seraphim was likely to go the same way. All I did was say that I wasn’t signing over the papers. And just for that, they call it mutiny, strip me of my title, and leave me here to rot before the voyage even gets underway.”

“What do you have against new-fangled?” Dean shot, sounding personally wounded. Lucifer laughed.

“What’s the good of a crew if you have robots that do the job for you? There’s no nobility in the profession anymore. I love skyfaring more than life itself, Winchester. It’s what I’d die for. And if my brothers have their say, it’s what I’m likely to do.”

“The automatons are mine, Captain. And while they may not make a profession for skyfarers, they make a hell of a job for me,” Dean replied primly.

“Really? Then it begs the question why you’re down here. My brothers love a mechanic. And the same goes for your friend as well.”

“We’re not supposed to be down here,” Castiel said, slowly sinking down until he sat on the damp stone floor with a thump. “We haven’t done anything wrong.”

“On the contrary, it seems like something very wrong was going to happen unless I spoke up,” Lucifer lightly retorted. “Your relationship, I assume, is a strike against you, despite you operating under sky law. Your kind is legal here, and whatever can be said about my brothers, they’re sticklers for rules. So what have you done?”

“Whatever it is, no one’s told us,” Dean replied. His voice echoed from the other side of the room. “My only guess is that it’s something to do with a mole on the ship. A little twig named Samandriel.”

“Samandriel? I know him. He’s a representative to skyship owners. Incredibly bright, and the most irritating sack of garbage I’ve ever encountered. He could make God feel ashamed of himself. But you’re no target for him. He goes after big fish.”

“Then why’d he make sure we got locked up?”

“Perhaps you interfered with the big plan,” Lucifer replied. “That’s how it is with those types. They need every puzzle to fit together perfectly.”

“So it’s a business dealing.”

“Obviously.”

“But the ship’s just changed hands. What could-”

Castiel’s eyes twitched as the conversation dimmed to a steady drone on monetary gain and supply surplus. The former captain, he could ascertain, was incredibly bright and articulate for a brig dweller, and his high stature was clear enough even in his voice, calm and commanding. It takes more than stripping a title to take away the spirit of it, Castiel thought as the corners of his mind began to grow hazy. His head sunk down into the crook of his elbow, the muffled voices giving him enough reassurance to doze off in the dank, freezing cell.

***

“Castiel!”

Castiel woke with a start, his eyes out of focus. He blinked rapidly, attempting to discover the source of the light bleeding into the brig.

“It’s Meg,” called the voice from the window of the door. Castiel looked up to the hazy outline of the door, which gradually reformed to show a dark-haired face peering at him from the window.

“Get _up,_ ” she hissed exasperatedly. “There’s something happening. I don’t know what’s going on, but you’ve got to get out of there.”

“What? I don’t…” Castiel said, getting shakily to his feet as Meg’s head disappeared from the window and the sound of clicking and scratching filled the room.

“Give me a minute to pick this lock,” her voice echoed through the door. “I’m thinking we need an angel for this, Castiel. And one of the good ones, too. Even though you still haven’t paid me in full,” she popped back up to the window, winking. Castiel stared in bewilderment. Wish any luck, he was still dreaming.

Meg was dragged backward by the hair, her head jerking back as she let out a strangled cry. The sound shot straight through his heart like an icy knife, making him jump and smack his head against the stone. Castiel bolted to the window and saw a dark figure leaning over Meg’s prone body, hands clamped around her neck. He kicked at the door, and it swung open to crash against the wall, the lock opened. He rushed out into the stone hallway, his arm raised to attack, only to fall back with a chocked gasp.

“Castiel,” the voice sang, stepping back from Meg’s body. “Castiel, is that you?”

“No,” Castiel breathed. Perhaps if he closed his eyes, shut them as tight as he could and open them to find himself back in his own bed on the ground, with the birds calling in the trees and the sound of the river…

“I should have known you’d end up in here eventually,” Rachel said, stepping over the threshold into the brig. “It’s where you were always meant to end up.”

“Rachel, _please,_ ” he gasped, his breath coming in sharp, painful gasps as he scrabbled at the stone floor.

“Stop speaking,” she shushed harshly, her boots clicking on the stone. Her face was obscured by shadow, her voice slithering through the darkness like a phantom. “or you’ll end slower.”

Castiel closed his mouth firmly, pressing his lips into a thin line as he swallowed, tears coursing involuntarily down his cheeks as the angel pinned him against the wall by the throat.

“It was so easy, Castiel, when I had decided that I was to get revenge,” she whispered, her fingers tightening. “That you were meant to suffer for what you did. Did you know that after your little stunt, after the wound was infected and I lost even more of my leg, that my family disowned me? I was disfigured, a disgrace. I didn’t even get the wound in battle, all I did was go to training and come back home not fit for anything but spending the family’s money on a prosthesis. Are you proud, Castiel? That your stupidity cost me my life?”

“I-I never meant to hurt you,” Castiel gasped as her fingers pressed into his windpipe. “Please…”

“I don’t give a damn what you meant to do,” she hissed, pulling his head forward and smacking it against the stone. “A life for a life. That’s how it works in war, Castiel. Not that I’d know.” 

Rachel reached into the folds of her dress, pulling forth a thin blade that glinted in the light like a disembodied eye.

“I should cut out your tongue and leave you here,” she breathed, running the blade down his skin, which stung as it was cut. “Cut out your tongue and your ears and eyes and leave you an ugly, useless mess. You wouldn’t even be able to cry out for help.”

“I…don’t need help,” Castiel coughed. His chest expanded as he drew in his last bit of air and cried, “ _Dean!_ ”

There was a scrabbling from the corner of the room as Rachel looked around. Castiel kicked out at the angel, hitting her squarely in the stomach. She doubled over as Dean’s figure emerged from the shadows.

“She has a knife,” Castiel said.

Immediately, Dean rushed forward and pushed Rachel to the ground, pinning her as Castiel took the knife from her hand and threw it down the hallway. He rushed out of the door towards Meg, Dean racing after him and slamming the door behind him, turning the bolt of the lock. Rachel rushed at them, screaming at them like a banshee, her face red and distorted.

“Are you all right?” Dean asked insistently, turning to face Castiel and clutching his face in his hands. One rough thumb trailed over the bleeding cut on the side of his face. “I’ll kill her,” he said darkly.

“Don’t be ridiculous, I’m fine, I’m fine,” Castiel said, putting a hand over Dean’s and placing the other on the back of his neck, leaning forward in the light so he could get a better look. “Don’t you see, I’m all right.”

Behind them, Meg sat up, clutching her head. “She’s in there?” she asked, and Dean and Castiel turned as one to look at her.

“Are you all right?” Castiel asked, reaching to help her up.

“I’m always all right,” she said, pushing his arm away from her and pulling herself to her feet, leaning against the wall for support. “Is she alone?”

“I don’t-”

“The woman, Rachel, is she alone in that room?” Meg asked insistently.

Castiel listened in, but there wasn’t a sound except for Rachel’s screaming.

“That would have woken him up,” Meg said with trepidation, backing down the hall. “If he’s not in there, then he on the decks. And we’re all dead.”

“What do you mean?” Dean asked, but was silenced by the sound of a gunshot ringing through the hall, echoing from the upper decks. Meg began striding down the hall, her skirt held in one shaking hand.

“All Hell’s going to break loose up there,” she called back to them. “I say grab your loved ones and take to an escape, or Lucifer'll get you. He's not just a legend, is he? The others say they've heard him screaming down here.”

“What the hell could Captain Lucifer do that’s so bad?” Dean shouted at her. "And how do you know he's here?"

“You think Rachel’s the only one on this boat who wanted revenge?” Meg retorted. “If my source is right, Lucifer’s been in the hold for weeks. And he’s going to want to get back at the brothers, the crew, and every passenger who wronged him. We’re all dead eventually anyway, boys. Do you really want to end on the tip of a madman’s sword?”


	13. This is It, the Apocalypse

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Someone is stolen, and a bargain is struck.
> 
> Chapter Song Title-Radioactive, Imagine Dragons

Someone was laughing far, far away. It twisted and spun like a needle in his head. He blinked, his eyelids squishing moistly together. He felt his finger twitch, his arm spasm as though it was a thousand miles away, trying to crawl back to him over the earth. God, he needed to sleep.

Suddenly there was light. There was so much light he thought the cones in his eyes must have exploded. What sort of liquid would explode from eyes? Something dark green and slimy, like coagulated oil.

The scuffling at the quickly-closing door made him faze out of his head. There was someone in the room with him. Someone he didn’t know.

“Who are you?” the voice hissed through the darkness.

He wasn’t totally sure. Who exactly was he? He remembered working on the ship, but it had been so long ago…and after that he’d gone on plenty of journeys. The demons of the Hell slums hailed him as a king, he’d shared stories with his little brother while they had been hiding in a golden haystack, and a succubus with breasts larger than his head had leaned down and sucked the soul right out of his chest…

“Sam Winchester,” he croaked. His shredded throat curled over the name protectively. The figure in the shadows seemed to nod. The still, dank air moved with him.  
“You’re the brother of the boy. You’ll do quite well.”

***

“You’d better know where you’re going,” Castiel panted as they followed Meg up the clanging flights of rickety stairs. The air was sticky and hot from the exposed boiler pipes overhead, and he wiped his sweating forehead on his sleeve as they continued the ascent.

“Of course I do,” she shot back, her skirts hiked up to a scandalously high level as she took the steps two at a time. “I was down her constantly, I could find my way around in my sleep.”

“What the hell were you doing down here?” Dean asked, askance.

“Feeding the inmates.” Meg looked back at their stunned faces. “What? Captain Lucifer was kind to me. I liked him. And he said when he was freed he would repay me for my troubles. You know that his brothers were starving him in that cell? They fed him on scraps and kept him close to starving. It was the least I could do.”

“It’s so pleasant to see how charitable you’ve become,” Castiel commented, only half sarcastically.

“Even I have my moments,” she replied airily.

There was a sudden clang as the pipes rattled in their loose casings. Meg drew up short, stumbling as Dean ran into her back, followed by Castiel. The pipes stilled, but another sound was echoing through the halls, bouncing off the metal walls and colliding with their eardrums in a tinny screech.

“Passengers and crew of the _USS Seraphim_ …”

“That’s him!” Dean cried as he covered his ears against the squealing of the broadcast over the metallic horns set at each intersection of the hallways.

“Your long lost Commander, Captain Lucifer, is speaking to you from the bridge. Your former commanding officers, as well as a member of the Engineering crew, are in my keeping. Any attempt to remove them will result in the ship’s immediate annihilation. You have exactly an hour to hand over command of the vessel peacefully, or each living soul on this ship will meet a most painful end.”

There was a click, and the horns fell silent.

“Engineering?” Castiel asked, turning to look at Dean. “Engineering? No, how could he? Bobby would never stand for it. Perhaps Garth-”

But his words were cut off as Dean tore up the steps, almost colliding into a wall as he ran. Castiel and Meg glanced at each other before haring off after him.

***

They finally caught up to Dean in an offshoot of the Engineering workshop, holding onto the doorframe for support as he stared into a dark, empty room.

“No,” he croaked, his voice sounding cracked and grey as old glass. “No, no, you son of a bitch!” he yelled so loudly that it was a wonder his voice couldn’t be heard on the top deck.

“Dean!” Castiel shouted, grabbing his shoulder. “Be quiet!”

“He took Sammy. The bastard took Sammy, I’ll see him hanged!” Dean roared, pushing Castiel’s hand off his shoulder and striding towards the door.

“Dean, don’t you do this! It’s too dangerous, don’t you dare!” he ran in front of Dean, stopping him in his tracks. “Dean, listen to me. Are you listening?” he asked fiercely, putting his hands on either side of his face and forcing their eyes to meet. “You heard what Lucifer said. If you try to get Sam out of there, you’ll both be killed. Sam wouldn’t want that to happen. No one wants that to happen.”

“Sammy doesn’t know what he wants,” Dean growled. “He’s out of his wits, remember? All the hop given to him by that ugly harlot’s rotted him to the core, but don’t you dare try to stop me, Cas, don’t you _dare_ stop me from helping my brother.”

Castiel stayed where he was, gripping Dean so tightly that he seemed to think Dean was going to fly away. He breath was coming in sharp gasps, his lungs seeming to fill with freezing water. His throat constricted as though trying to force the words back down into his stomach.

“If you do this, I’ll jump. I swear I will, Dean.”

“The hell are you talking about?”

“The funny thing about someone who’s been through trauma…” Castiel held up his left hand in front of Dean’s eyes, watching carefully as he held the twitching limb close to his face, “is that one always wants to forget.”

“Castiel,” Meg said sharply. “We don’t have time for this.”

“Sam will only be in there for an hour, and then he’ll be freed,” Castiel said, trying to sound soothing despite his shaking voice. “but if you try to get him out, you’ll be killed, the both of you. And if you die, so will I, Dean. You must understand.”

“Castiel,” Dean hissed. “ _Please_. Don’t you make me choose between you and him. I won’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“Because I’d have to give you an answer you wouldn’t want to hear.”

“How about the both of you stop talking as though you’re about to be shot,” Meg exclaimed, “and think. If all of the other captains had been captured, what need would he have had to make any sort of announcement? This means that there’s someone who isn’t trapped in the bridge. With any guess he’s laying low and trying to figure out whether he wants to risk his brother’s wrath while getting the others out. So maybe if you’d stop flailing about like schoolgirls, we can go about finding the leftover captain? You know, the one who has even the slightest chance of getting to his brother?”

Dean glared at her, but Castiel turned away, clenching his hands into fists so tight that his nails just into his palms. This was no time for sentimentality. There never was. “Where would we even go about finding one person on this ship?”

“It all depends on who’s left,” Meg said. “And, I suppose, whichever one of his brothers he would have the most want for vengeance.”

Castiel bit his lip, staring at the ground. He could hardly say he knew any of the captains well at all, besides the fact that they’d treated both he and Dean horridly. Who was he to say which one an imprisoned captain would hate more?

“I know,” Dean said, walking towards the door. “We have to go to the galley.”

“Why?”

“Because I’ve worked with these men for years. They’re all unlikeable, but there’s only one who could be so hated. There’s one condition,” he said, turning to look at them. “If he doesn’t help us, and I sincerely doubt he will, we do it my way.”

“You go and get yourself killed trying to get Sam out of the bridge?” Cas asked.

“You do realize that this man is likely armed, don’t you? Armed and mad?” Meg added.

“I _said_ , we do it my way,” Dean snarled.

“Fine,” Castiel replied, stepping forward to stand beside him. “We do it your way, and I do it with you. I’d rather die helping you then jumping from the ship. But it’s your decision, after all.”

Dean stared at him, his mouth slack, looking as though Castiel had just stabbed him. He immediately regretted his words, but it was far too late to take it back. And there was nothing he could call a lie in any case.

“Fine, fine!” Meg shouted, pushing between them and through the door. “We’re going to go and find the captain. And if it doesn’t work, I’m more than happy to sit back and watch you both risk your skins to save your damned brother.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (I'm going to do that thing that I'm sure we've all done at some point in our online career where we simply pretend that I haven't just disappeared for the better part of a couple of months) Hope you enjoyed! You guys know the drill, and given that we're down into the last two chapter or so, I'd love your guys' input into how you'd like to see the story end. No guarantees, of course, but I always love input. :)


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